This Ruined Puzzle
by Eskimo-Desi
Summary: The water beats down relentlessly on Ryan, bruising his skin. It feels good, because it helps Ryan forget. He is slowly pummeling the pain and less-than-perfect memories out of his body." Read & Review.
1. One

Ryan clomps up the rickety stairs in his black work boots. He holds onto the railing with its grayish-blue peeling paint. The steps shake and rattle unsteadily beneath him. He'll have to fix that. Later. He opens the screen door, there's a hole in the mosquito netting. He'll have to fix that too. As the door slams shut, a dull wave of pain crashes into Ryan's back. Not even his bruises and troubles can hurt him, much. He's so used to the aching that it doesn't hurt anymore.

Ryan bends over with great difficulty, hearing something in his back go _snap!_, he knows he should haul his ass to the doctor, but he doesn't have the time right now. Or the money. Ryan doesn't know when he will have the money, but now is definitely not then.

The smell of steak cooking swarms around Ryan's head, climbing up into his nostrils and starting a cramp of hunger in his stomach. Which reminds Ryan; he didn't eat lunch today. He was working, working his ass off while all the other guys were eating and cavorting their lunch hour away. But Ryan needs the money, he needs the overtime. And he needs to show his boss that he's a strong, dedicated worker so he'll get promoted. Then, he'll make more money, not much more, but enough to get the bills paid and have a little left over for food and small luxuries.

He walks into the kitchen. Theresa is setting bowls of lettuce, tomato, cheese, and sour cream on the table. Her mother, Dolores, is at the stove, stirring the steak that has currently got Ryan's stomach twisting painfully.

Both women turn around as Ryan's boots make his presence known.

Dolores smiles wearily. "Hijo, how was work?" Her face is wrinkled, making her seem much, much older than 39. The creases around her mouth and eyes show the effects of single parenting for seventeen years, laboring endlessly for twenty-four.

Dolores means lady of sorrows.

"It was good." Ryan reaches into his pocket and pulls out a thick wad of bills. "I cashed my paycheck already." He separates the bills into two piles, pressing the larger one into Dolores' hand. "For the heat and electric bills."

"Thank you." Dolores smiles, and Ryan wonders if he'll look like she does, after decades of labor. Right now, that dull throbbing in his back is not so dull anymore. Ryan's head pulsates, and all he'd like to do right now is crawl into bed and sleep. He knows he can't. After dinner he promised to help Mr. Gonzalez, who lives next door. That'll add an extra three hours onto Ryan's day. Mr. Gonzalez sends Ryan for groceries, then talks to him about his early life. Ryan would enjoy it, were he not exhausted from the inside out.

Dolores turns off the stove and scoops the sizzling steak meat into a bowl. She brings it to the table and sets it in the middle. Theresa sits down, and looks at the table, confused.

"Is something missing?"

Ryan and Dolores study the table. "Taco shells," Ryan deduces. Theresa begins to stand up. "I'll get them, Theresa."

Theresa sits down, and she and her mother share a knowing smile. Ryan is a good man, he'll make a great husband. Theresa isn't stupid, though. She knows that Ryan has only agreed to marry her because it's the honorable thing to do. He doesn't love her. And that's okay, for Theresa.

She is beginning to glow with the joy of pregnancy, and her stomach has rounded over. Ryan returns to the table with a plate of hard taco shells. As he sits down, something in his lower back goes _pop!_ and he grimaces. Neither Theresa nor her mother seem to notice.

"You know, that screen door is ripped. The mosquitoes are _everywhere._" Theresa swats at the air in front of her tan, rounded face.

Ryan nods. "I'll fix it as soon as possible," he promises. Theresa is always on his case, for reasons unknown. If the mosquitoes were bothering her _that _much, she'd do it herself or ask one of Arturo's old friends that hasn't been incarcerated to do it.

Ryan waits for Theresa and Dolores to take a taco shell and begin to fill it before reaching for one himself. He can hardly reach the tomatoes, and his arm is so heavy he could just let it drop into the bowl of sour cream.

Dolores sees Ryan struggling for the tomatoes. Wordlessly she passes the bowl into his hand. "Thanks," he manages.

After dinner Ryan puts his black hooded jacket on. It still smells like Springtime Fresh, the detergent Rosa, the Cohens' housekeeper, used on it. The smell is faded and almost overpowered by stale cigarette smoke and oil, but if Ryan concentrates hard enough, he can still hold on to it.

"Give my regards to Mr. Gonzalez," Dolores says, handing Ryan a small package wrapped in tinfoil. She is always sending Ryan or Theresa over with food, though they can't really afford to spare it. Ryan knows what dinner tomorrow night will be, and most likely the next night too. That is, if he hasn't collapsed from sheer exhaustion by then.

He slips out the torn screen door, making a second mental note to fix it later. Ryan would do it this weekend, but he agreed to pick up an extra shift. So the door will have to wait. He wants to tell Theresa to do it herself, whenever she complains about the mosquitoes. She is helpless without him; a blind bat. Or so she pretends. Ryan remembers the strong-willed teenager he used to know. How could he forget the girl who beat him in an arm-wrestling match but promised not to tell! She was able-bodied and frequently made sure to remind Ryan of that. Ryan doesn't know where that girl went, although he suspects she grew into a woman.

Ryan knocks three times on Mr. Gonzalez's door, then lets himself in. Mr. Gonzalez never locks his doors, except at night when he's sleeping. He rarely leaves the house, so there is no need to lock it when he goes out.

Ryan makes his way into the small house. It mirrors Theresa's house, save the pale blue shutters on her windows as opposed to Mr. Gonzalez's maroon ones.

"Mr. Gonzalez?" he calls, walking through the kitchen and into the small living room. He hears a radio in the living room and heads in there. Mr. Gonzalez likes to read with the radio blaring. He claims it helps him concentrate.

Mr. Gonzalez is snoring slightly, chest heaving up and down. His book is open, lying on his lap, and the radio is, as always, on the side table. Ryan runs a hand through his greasy blond locks. He could use a shower right about now, but he has to run errands for Mr. Gonzalez and he knows that when he returns to Theresa's house in a few hours he'll be too tired.

Ryan turns the radio off, and Mr. Gonzalez quickly opens his eyes.

"Turn that back on, boy," Mr. Gonzalez grins. "I was listening."

Ryan laughs and spins the dial with his rough, chafed fingers. His nails are stained around the edges with oil and soot, the result of working in a factory one too many hours. Mr. Gonzalez lives by that radio. He always knows when Ryan's turned it off, or changed it, even if he's sleeping. He grew up with the radio; it's the only present he ever received for his birthday, and it has served him well over the years.

"What can I get you tonight?" Ryan walks back into the kitchen and reappears a moment later, pen and paper in hand.

Mr. Gonzalez peers at Ryan from his bifocals. The boy looks terrible. His hair is greasy, his face his haggard, and he's hunched over, in a way no boy his age should be.

"You look awful," says Mr. Gonzalez seriously. "When's the last time you slept?"

Ryan doesn't flinch. He's used to Mr. Gonzalez telling the truth. And being able to spot the truth, in the first place. If it were anyone else asking him, Ryan would become defensive. But Mr. Gonzalez has managed to pierce the cold shield covering Ryan's heart, the one he made a little over two months ago. Newport made Ryan soft. Too soft. Hence the shield. No longer could Ryan get hurt, because he would not allow himself to feel.

"Last night."

Mr. Gonzalez raises his thinning eyebrows skeptically. "For how long?"

"Four hours," Ryan admits, lowering his eyes to the ground. Mr. Gonzalez is interfering now. He can't deal with this. He just wants to go home and collapse into bed. Sooner than later he's bound to collapse, whether he's at the grocery store picking up necessities for Mr. Gonzalez or at home.

"Then go home, boy. I can live without fresh milk for a day." Mr. Gonzalez sits up straighter in the overstuffed armchair. Like Mr. Gonzalez, the armchair has seen better days. The stuffing is coming out of the seat and it's stained and patched in countless places. It's a part of who Mr. Gonzalez is though, just like the radio.

"I can't, Mr. Gonzal--" Ryan says.

Mr. Gonzalez cuts in. "Go home, Ryan."

He rarely calls Ryan by his name, _boy_ is his term of endearment for the blonde teenager.

"If you're sure…" Ryan looks uncertain. He's pacing around the worn wood floor, carefully sidestepping the floorboard that creaks. It's quite loud and obnoxious sounding, and Mr. Gonzalez is sure Ryan's got a splitting headache.

"I'm sure," Mr. Gonzalez insists. "Get some sleep. I'll see you tomorrow, and I want you rested. A boy your age shouldn't look like you do."

The corners of Ryan's mouth crinkle slightly, a smile. Mr. Gonzalez waves him off. "Go!"

Ryan pads through the house. When he reaches the door, he opens it and yells, "Don't forget to lock the door!"

Ryan hears Mr. Gonzalez turn the radio up even louder, and he knows he's been heard.

He cuts across the small patch of grass dividing Mr. Gonzalez's house from Theresa's. The screen door groans and swings open slowly. The door is tired, Ryan's tired, his world is tired.

"Ryan? That you?" Ryan can hear Theresa's voice from the bedroom. He walks towards the room.

"It's me." He opens the door and sees Theresa sitting at the small, unfinished wood desk in their room. Ryan's been meaning to finish it with a glossy top coat one of these days, but the day hasn't come yet. He's got a whole list of things to do.

"What are you doing home so early? Is Mr. Gonzalez okay?" Theresa asks, writing furiously. Ryan walks over to her and gives her shoulders a quick rub. He sees the familiar scrawl on the paper but cannot make out the words. He's too tired. The room is shaking a little bit…maybe he'll go take a shower now. At least he can take advantage of the time to clean up.

Ryan can only imagine what the Cohens would say, if they knew he didn't shower daily, or even five times a week. He's lucky if he gets three ten minute showers in; on a good week, four. He doesn't think Marissa would want to hug him and love him if she saw him like this. It doesn't matter though, because he's not going to let her see him like this. He's a different person than the Ryan who might possibly be in love with Marissa. He's new, not improved, but definitely new.

"Ry? Is something wrong?" Theresa asks again, signing the paper with a flourish and folding it into a creamy white envelope. She hands the envelope to Ryan, who obligingly licks and seals it.

"No…" Ryan says, blinking a few times to rid his eyes of the white lights that dance merrily around his head. "I'm gonna take a shower." He kisses her on the head, notices that _she_ smells like flowers. Theresa has time to wash her hair at least five times a week. There are weeks when she washes it every day. Ryan doesn't have time. But Theresa does. She's only working part time, while Ryan works one and a half to two eight hour shifts a day.

Ryan leaves Theresa in the bedroom and opens the linen closet. He takes out a faded blue towel and a formerly fluffy white one. After locking the bathroom door, he spreads the faded blue towel on the cold tile floor. Theresa hates it when Ryan leaves puddles on the floor. She does it too, but Ryan would never dare say anything. He knows better than to mess with a pregnant woman, especially if her name is Theresa.

Turning on the shower, Ryan sticks his hand in the forceful stream of water to check the temperature. It's freezing, Theresa must've used up most of the hot water, which means Ryan will be taking a short, lukewarm shower. With stiff arms that have not yet adjusted to rigorous labor Ryan pulls his shirt and tank top over his head, revealing a well toned stomach that is marred only by a few bruises and scars.

He unzips his pants and steps out of them, then bends over and picks them up. He folds them neatly and reaches down for the shirts, trying to ignore the _crack! _from his back. Finally, Ryan slips out of his plaid boxers--one of his only mementos from the Cohens. Kirsten loved shopping for Ryan. She bought him so many clothes, they were far too nice for the life he was living now. Which was exactly why Ryan had left them in the pool house closet.

The water beats down relentlessly on Ryan, bruising his skin. It feels good, because it helps Ryan forget. He is slowly pummeling the pain and less-than-perfect memories out of his body.

Ryan walks into the bedroom, a towel wrapped around his waist. The shower was refreshing, to say the least. His hair is damp but quickly drying in the house, for it is not air-conditioned.

"Ryan?" The lights are off and Theresa is in bed.

"Yeah?" Ryan grunts, opening a drawer and pulling out a wife beater and a fresh pair of boxers.

"Sandy called. He wants to see you."

"Did you tell him I'm busy?"

"Well…"

"I'll call him back when I get a spare minute, okay? Things are hectic at work, but when it settles down…"

"Ryan, I told him to stop by." Theresa's voice is laced with regret and worry.

"You what?" Ryan pulls the chain and the lamp on the desk flicker on. "When is he coming?"

"Tomorrow morning. I'm sorry Ryan, he sounded so desperate to talk to you, and--"

"Theresa, I don't have time. Fuck, you know that I've got to be at work at six!" Ryan finishes getting dressed and sits down at the desk.

"Ryan…" Theresa whimpers.

"Just shut your mouth," Ryan growls. A second later he is by Theresa's side. "I didn't mean it like that…"

"It's okay. I'm sorry, really, Ry, I am," Theresa kisses Ryan with her plump lips. She'd never need Botox injections, with those lips. Ryan returns the kiss. This is all he has. He has to live with it. A few seconds of bliss with a woman he doesn't love is better than nothing. Theresa leans back onto her pillow. "Did you have a chance to fix the screen door?"

Ryan's blood begins to boil, and the dancing white fairies return to put on a show before his eyes. "No, Theresa, when the fuck do you think I had time? While I was in the shower?"

"Chill out, Ryan. I've been asking you for two weeks, I just thought maybe you would get around to doing it." Theresa's voice has a sharp edge to it.

Ryan walks over to the drawer and takes out a pair of jeans. He grabs his coat, which is on the floor. He can't deal with this right now. Maybe some fresh air will help his spinning head. Maybe.

"Where are you going?" Theresa asks.

"Out," Ryan answers emotionlessly. Theresa hates when he gets like this. It's like Ryan is gone, and just his empty shell remains. He never used to be like this…

"You should really get some sleep," Theresa advises, but Ryan walks out of the room anyway. He enters the kitchen and grabs his wallet off of the table, opening it and counting the money he has left from his last paycheck. It's not much, but it might be enough.

Ryan slowly opens the screen door, silently cursing it for creaking and being torn. Without a backwards glance, Ryan walks at a brisk pace down the sidewalk. He doesn't see a moonlit Theresa watching him from the window.

-----

"Ryan," Theresa mumbles, rolling over on her side and coming face to face with an empty half of the bed. She could've sworn he came in last night…but maybe she was dreaming.

She gets up, a sudden urgency to use to the bathroom. Once done, she heads into the kitchen, where Dolores is frying bacon.

"Ryan must've left early this morning," Dolores notes. "I got up at five-thirty and he was gone."

Theresa nods her head. Ryan did come in, he must've just left for work early. He'll be home late tonight though; he picked up a second shift for the rest of the week.

Dolores arranges the bacon on a chipped plate. The bacon sizzles on top of the flowered design. She opens the refrigerator and takes out a bowl of pre-sliced melon.

"Here you go. Do you want eggs, hija?"

"Yes, Ma," Theresa answers.

Theresa finishes breakfast and goes back into the bedroom to change into her catering attire. She's got a job in Huntington Beach today. Maybe if she finishes early, she'll go pay a visit to Sandy and Kirsten and Seth. She knows she won't; she's already done enough to anger Ryan, the last thing she needs is him thinking she's sneaking around behind his back.

---

Theresa studies her nails. He hasn't come home for four days. She could really use a manicure, but they just don't have the money. Especially with Ryan missing.

She rings the doorbell again, tries to peer through the stained glass doors. Maybe they're not home…maybe she should just come back another time.

She's about to turn around and concede defeat when Sandy opens the door. He looks frazzled, and his tie is hanging loosely around his neck.

"Is this a bad time?" Theresa asks. Maybe she should've called…

"No, no," Sandy says, although his face clearly broadcasts the opposite. He opens the door. "You know, when I came over the other day, no one was home."

"I know, I'm sorry about that. Ryan had to help a friend out…a last minute emergency. And I was at work and my mother was out getting groceries." Theresa can't bear to tell Sandy that Ryan didn't want to see him, was angry that he was coming. She'd rather tell Sandy that than tell him Ryan's missing. He could just be laying low, but Theresa knows Ryan better than that. If he was, he'd at least call and let her know he wasn't lying in an alley somewhere.

"That's quite all right." Sandy looks behind Theresa. "Is he with you?"

"No, that's what I came to talk to you about, actually." Theresa can't believe she's doing this.

"Hello, Theresa. Is Ryan here?" Kirsten walks by, one shoe on, the other in hand. Her hair is done in a French twist and a short, balding man is following her around.

It scares Theresa how alike Sandy and Kirsten are, how concerned they are for Ryan. Ryan was so certain they'd forget about him, but he was wrong. If anything, they think of him even more now that he's not living in the pool house.

"No. Um, you might want to sit down," Theresa begins. Sandy and Kirsten sit down on the couch in the living room. Their faces are both alarmed and eyes wide.

"Is everything okay? Is the baby okay?" Sandy asks, but Kirsten hushes him.

"Ryan's missing," Theresa spits out. The words feel unnatural on her tongue, and sting her full lips. Ryan always loved her lips.

"What do you mean?" Sandy asks. Kirsten is frozen with a look of horror on her face. Rendered speechless. Ryan had that effect on people. Theresa hates why he has that effect on Kirsten at this very moment. She never wanted to be the bearer of bad news. But someone had to tell them.

"A few nights ago, the night you called, Sandy, Ryan went out for a walk. And he never came back. We got a call from his supervisor at the factory asking where Ryan was, since he hadn't shown up for work." Theresa is unsure of the wavering tone in her voice, a thin, spidery hint of her anxiety.

"Let's think about it rationally," Sandy says, although Theresa knows he won't be able to contain himself much longer. "Have you talked to any of Ryan's friends? Eddie? Maybe they know where he is."

Theresa thinks for a moment. Eddie was angry, really angry, when he found out Ryan was going to live with Theresa and raise the baby, whether it was his or not. They weren't exactly on speaking terms, Ryan and Eddie.

Sandy senses that Theresa has not had the sense to ask around. "Before we get the police involved," Sandy says calmly, "Why don't you go home, ask his friends if they've seen him. If they haven't, you'll call me and come over and we can go from there."

Theresa doesn't understand why Sandy is behaving in such a relaxed manner. The Sandy she's met a few times is not like this. He's nothing like this at all. Ryan's changed, though, and apparently so has Sandy.

"You'll let us know as soon as possible, Theresa?" Kirsten asks, but it's more of a statement. Theresa knows Kirsten will be sitting by the phone until she calls. She knows it. This is the kind of person Ryan deserves to have as a mother. The kind who worries, who cares. If only he could've seen…

Theresa lets herself out, but before she can close the door and begin the search, she hears the sounds of a woman crying. Kirsten. She wants to let Kirsten know that everything is all right, they'll find Ryan, and he'll be alive.

She can't make any promises though, because she's as much in the dark as Sandy and Kirsten are.


	2. Two

Theresa ignores the catcalls and whistles. Head held high, she walks past the boys, who are barely men, and up to a man who must be the supervisor.

"Is Eddie here?" she asks. She can feel the guy's beady eyes study her body.

"Yeah," he answers, after a gauche moment. "I'll go get him."

Theresa drums her fingernails against the metal pole she is leaning on. She sees the eyes greedily soaking up her full figure. She's begun to show, but only a little. These men seem to like her plumpness, like they're used to it.

"Theresa." Eddie's smooth voice surprises her. She turned around to see Eddie, jumpsuit and all, grease stained hands, but there he is. She hasn't seen him in a little over two months, ever since Ryan came...

"Hi, Eddie," Theresa accepts Eddie's hug. It's awkward, he must know it too. She breaks apart.

"Eddie, can I ask you something?" Theresa wrings her hands together. They're so small compared to Eddie's. So clean, so smooth, unlike his rough, charred ones.

"Go ahead." Eddie casually leans against the metal pole, trying to keep the smug look off his face. All the other guys have stopped their work and are staring at Theresa. She's most likely come to take him back. Oh, he'll come back all right, as long as that son of a bitch Atwood is out of the picture.

Theresa plays with her fingers, eyes downcast. "Eddie, have you seen Ryan? He disappeared a few days ago and I'm worried."

"No," Eddie spits at Theresa. The bitch thinks he had something to do with Ryan's disappearance? He would've liked to, but he had no idea Ryan was missing. Until now. "What makes you think I would know?"

 "I—I just thought, you guys used to be friends, maybe he said something to you..." Theresa bites her plump, pinkish bottom lip.

"Don't fucking blame this on me," Eddie says. "It's not my fault if he abandoned you."

"Eddie, he's not like that," Theresa insists. Eddie wraps his arms around Theresa.

"I'm sorry, Theresa. I didn't mean it like that." Even though he did. "Look, why don't I help you look for him?" He leans in for a kiss.

Theresa recoils from his touch. "Eddie, what are you doing?"

"I thought you came here to make up with me," Eddie leans in for another kiss but Theresa moves her head sideways and he gets a mouthful of her hair. "I thought you wanted my help, wanted to be with me."

"I've got to find Ryan." Theresa kisses Eddie on the cheek and struts out of the factory like she owns the place.

The bitch loves him. She really fucking loves him. Eddie knows Ryan doesn't love her, and he's pretty sure Theresa knows it too. Fuck her. She could've been with him, he really loves her. Instead she's wasting her time on a guy who is probably lying dead in an alley. This is not the Theresa Eddie knows and loves. She is a shadow of the girl she used to be.

---

Theresa picks up the phone on the first ring. It's Kirsten.

"Any word?" Kirsten's voice is hushed, like she's speaking privately.

 "Not yet," Theresa says. She wants to talk to Eddie again, and some of Arturo's friends too. They were all friends, so maybe they know something. If Eddie won't tell her, she'll find out from someone else. That is, if they do know.

"Oh." The disappointment is unmistakable. "I've got to go. Call me as soon as you hear something, okay, Theresa?"

"Okay." Theresa feels bad about lying to Kirsten; she's been through enough already. But she wants to find something, anything, it's better than going back to the Cohens empty-handed. If she does, they'll think she doesn't care. And she does...care, a lot.

--

Theresa rises with the sun. It's her own time, her own world, before anyone's awake and while the earth moves slower, almost lazily. Time seems to pause for hours, days, weeks. Theresa wishes she could stay in her time forever. No one disturbs her, no one reminds her of her problems.

She grabs a banana for breakfast; the last thing she needs is Dolores on her case about proper nutrition for the baby. The baby. Ryan's gone. The baby. Eddie's a jackass. The baby. The baby...what got her into this whole mess.

Unbolting the door, Theresa slips out, ears ringing as the screen door squeaks. Damned door. The netting is torn even more than before. Ryan never fixed it. She was always on his case, too. Maybe she shouldn't have bugged him about it. He was tired, overworked, and underpaid. It wasn't fair. But Theresa's whole life had been one big un-fair parade, so it was only natural that Ryan's became the same when he came to live with her.

The streets are quiet, cool, before the morning rush, before the heat. She'll wait there until seven, that's when the stragglers come in. She wants to ask each and every one, just in case.

Theresa sits, drinking her coffee, waiting for Eddie and his cronies to come in for their daily caffeine fix. Complain as they might about money being tight, they still find $1.36 for coffee every morning.

Juan enters the coffee shop, eyeing Theresa as if trying to place her. "Theresa?" he asks tentatively, walking over to the pregnant girl...no, she's a woman now. Definitely not Arturo's baby sister anymore.

"Juan." Theresa's face lights up. He was always nice to her, way back when she wore pigtails and believed in fairy tales and happily-ever-afters.

"How are you?" Juan asks, walking over to the counter and placing his order but keeping his eye on Theresa.

"Okay," Theresa answers. Juan pays for his coffee and sits down across from Juan. "Juan, can I ask you something?"

"Go ahead, chica," Juan says, grinning his toothy smile. He always had the whitest teeth, the straightest teeth; how they stayed that way, Theresa couldn't fathom, for Juan chain-smoked and did his fair share of drugs in his teenage years.

"Have you seen Ryan?"

"Shaggy blond hair, kinda short, bright blue eyes?" Juan asks, sipping the hot liquid.

"The one and only," Theresa smiles, but Juan can tell she's trying hard not to break into tears.

"Then no." Juan pauses, studies Theresa's face. She's a little rounder than the last time he saw her, but pleasant to look at nonetheless. "Why, he missing?"

Theresa nods her head, takes a sip of her coffee. "For a few days now. I tried to ask Eddie but he said he didn't know anything about it."

Juan shakes his head in understanding. He's heard about the baby, Eddie's jealousy, and Ryan's willingness to be the baby's father, whether biologically or not. "I'll ask around," he offers. Theresa's face lights up like a moonbeam again. "How's about I meet you here tomorrow?"

"Okay," Theresa says, as Juan stands up. He places his hand over hers for a moment, and then heads out the door.

--

Theresa returns home at 7:45 to find the answering machine blinking. Three unheard messages.

_Theresa, it's Jorge. I need you for a catering job tomorrow night. Call me back soon as you get this. _

_Theresa, hi, it's Sandy. Um, don't tell Kirsten I called, because I know we said we were going to wait for you to call, but I just wanted to know if you heard anything yet. Call me back. _

_Theresa, hi, it's Kirsten. Uh, don't tell Sandy I called, because I know we said we were going to wait for you to call, but I just wanted to know if you heard anything yet. Call me back._

Theresa dials Jorge's number. "Jorge? It's Theresa."

"You busy tomorrow?"

"Nah."

"Be here at eight. It's a brunch in Newport Coast."

"Kay. Thanks for calling me, Jorge." She picks up the phone again, begins to dial the Cohens' number. But she doesn't really know what she'll say. She's come to a dead end already, and she hasn't even begun her search. She won't fail; she's determined to stay strong, like Ryan would.

Juan has been most helpful and Theresa hopes he doesn't expect anything in return. Anything, as in sex, drugs, money…Theresa's head swims around the endless possibilities.

The other guys were sympathetic to Theresa's cause and promised, just like Juan, that they'd keep their eyes peeled. Somehow, Theresa doubted they would remember, and even if they did, she figured their search would be fruitless.

Theresa heads into the kitchen. She'll make _tortilla de patatas_; her mother loves the dish, and it's simple. She opens a cabinet and begins to root around for the ingredients.

She heats the oil in a pan, adds the potato slices one at a time. She layers the onions in, ignoring the tears forming from the pungent smell. After the eggs have been added to the potatoes, she spreads the mixture across a second, larger skillet. The potatoes start to brown so she adds a bit more oil and flips it over. Once it's done, she sets it aside on a flowered plate to cool. They can heat it up later.

Theresa turns off the stove and heads outside. The house is relatively clean; there's no point in re-dusting or sweeping. She sits down on the front stoop, feeling the steps sway beneath her. Maybe this wasn't a good idea...

Theresa looks over and sees Mr. Gonzalez's house. Maybe Ryan's been there...either way, Mr. Gonzalez surely needs groceries and the like.

Theresa runs back inside the house and slips on a pair of black sandals she got on sale. She didn't really need them, but they were cute, feminine, and only $3.45. Ryan's shoes probably cost at least 30 times that...and Theresa doesn't even want to think about how much Kirsten and Marissa's shoes probably cost. She's heard of shoes that cost hundreds and hundreds of dollars, just because they're attached to a brand name. It's ridiculous, and it makes Theresa sick, when she thinks of the amount of money they spend on shoes. She desperately needs that kind of money.

A tentative knock on the door, and Theresa is ready to go back to her house. At least she tried...but then the door is opening and Mr. Gonzalez's face peers out warily from the screen door. His screen door is in perfect condition, Theresa notes.

"Theresa?" the man opens the door. He looks pale and thinner than she remembers.

"How are you?" Mr. Gonzalez ignores her question.

"Where the hell is that boy?"

"I haven't seen him since almost five days ago," Theresa admits.

"He came to visit me four days ago, he brought me groceries," Mr. Gonzalez says, putting his arm around Theresa and guiding her into the house. He closes the door, not bothering to lock it. Ryan was always on his case about locking it.

"Oh," Theresa says, somewhat shocked. So Ryan was around four days ago. She had no idea whether he was still in town, or lying dead somewhere. For all she knew, he could be in jail for some unknown reason, like helping an old friend steal a car. "So you haven't seen him since?" She feels a little neglected; why wouldn't Ryan come to see her after he disappeared, like he came to see Mr. Gonzalez?

"Can't say that I have." Mr. Gonzalez disappears into the kitchen and comes back out with two steaming mugs of tea. "I was in the middle of making tea."

He hands Theresa a cup and she gratefully accepts it. "I--I just don't know where he would've gone. And why," Theresa says. She's got a feeling that she knows why he left...but to where...she's got no idea.

"Theresa." Mr. Gonzalez places his hand on hers. "Sometimes the people we love, leave. And sometimes they don't come back." Saying it doesn't make it hurt any less.

Theresa shuts her eyes as the salty tears sting her face. "I know..." she says finally, "but it's not fair to me, or his family. He had a family, Mr. Gonzalez. You know that? A true family, they didn't hit him, and they loved him a lot. How could he leave them?"

Mr. Gonzalez shakes his head. "I don't know. We can't always explain people's actions. But you've got to understand that the boy was under an enormous amount of pressure. He's barely legal, already working harder than he should have to. He's got a baby on the way, and I'm sure he regrets leaving the Cohens behind. And you. But there are reasons, Theresa."

Theresa knows that Ryan has talked with Mr. Gonzalez, about the Cohens, his life, and probably her. He probably even told Mr. Gonzalez that he was leaving. Ryan's not stupid though; Theresa knows he didn't...wouldn't tell Mr. Gonzalez where he was going.

She sighs. "I--it's just...what am I going to do? My mother and I barely make enough to scrape by, and even with Ryan working it wasn't enough."

"You'll find a way." Mr. Gonzalez winks. "I hope that unlike Ryan you'll be willing to accept gifts instead of acting too proud." He wants her to ask the Cohens for money. Or, at least take the money they offer. Theresa knew that they were sending Ryan checks--blank checks, even. That's how much they trusted him. But she also knows that not once did Ryan cash the checks. Not once. Not even one check that would pull them out of the water. He was too proud. Instead, he'd sent them back.

Theresa nods her head in understanding. "I guess," she sighs. "I guess it doesn't matter if Ryan would be angry about it or not...since he up and left without thinking of us."

"That's not true, Theresa. I'm sure he was thinking of you. Maybe he thought your life would be better without him." Mr. Gonzalez smiles sadly.

Ryan was too proud for his own good. He was trying to help, but he didn't.

"Thanks, Mr. Gonzalez. Now, what can I get you from the grocery store?"

--

Theresa doesn't understand why Mr. Gonzalez could possibly need three pounds of hamburger meat, but whatever. It's his money, and she's just doing him a favor. In the checkout line, Theresa is absentmindedly reading a tabloid when someone taps her on the shoulder. She turns around. It's Eddie.

"Hey," he smiles.

"Hi." A forced smile on Theresa's part.

"Have you heard anything about Ryan?" Eddie asks, seemingly interested. Theresa is very aware of Eddie's hand, which is resting on her shoulder. She takes a step forward to rid her shoulder of the hand, but surprisingly it stays.

"No," Theresa finally answers, trying hard not to look Eddie in the eye.

"Look, babe..." Eddie's voice has dropped, it's softer, sweeter, more like the Eddie Theresa was going to marry. "I love you. Let me help you look for him. But, just 'cause he's missing doesn't mean you can't be happy..."

Eddie thinks he's so slick. But he's not. Not to Theresa, anyway. How dare he try to make a move on her when Ryan is missing! It's almost as though he doesn't care...and he probably doesn't.

"Babe, think of it like this. Ryan's your close friend, he'd want you to be happy. Besides, I doubt he's coming back, not for a long time." Theresa stares at Eddie in disbelief. Eddie has no right to make assumptions about Ryan's coming home...or rather, not coming.

The cashier has rung Theresa's groceries up, and she hands him the wad of bills from Mr. Gonzalez. She takes the change and wheels her cart out of the store. Turning around, she sees Eddie open his mouth to say something.

"Don't bother," she tells him, and leaves.

--

Theresa is waiting in Mr. Gonzalez's living room. After helping him put the groceries away, he told her to wait in the other room for a minute. She studies the old, yellowing photographs and pictures on the walls of the small room. The wooden floor is also faded, and Theresa winces when she steps on a loose floorboard. It lets out an annoying creak, another painful reminder of the broken screen door Ryan never fixed.

Mr. Gonzalez comes out with a large paper bag filled to the brim. "For you, and your mother."

Theresa shakes her head. "No...I can't, Mr. Gonzalez..."

Mr. Gonzalez laughs insistently. "Do you really think I'd eat three pounds of meat?"

"Thank you, Mr. Gonzalez," Theresa says politely, laughing inwardly.

Mr. Gonzalez walks her to the front door. "Thank you, Theresa. Come by any time, you hear me?"

"Yeah." Theresa walks down the rotting wooden steps and crosses the lawn, overridden with weeds and clovers. She balances the heavy bag on one arm and opens the creaking, torn screen door again. If only she hadn't bothered him every second...it was just a screen door, after all.

Entering the house, she sets the groceries down on the counter, and sits down in a kitchen chair for a moment. She'll just rest for a moment...

"Theresa?" Dolores' voice squashes Theresa's plans for a quick nap.

"Yes, ma?" Dolores enters the kitchen, looking at the bag of groceries suspiciously.

"What's that?"

"I went shopping for Mr. Gonzalez today," Theresa explains. "He had too much, so he gave us some..."

"Theresa, how could you take from him?" Dolores asks, flabbergasted.

"Ma, it wasn't like that. He gave it to me. I told him I couldn't accept it, but he wouldn't take no for an answer." Theresa begins to unpack the groceries and put them in their respective places.

Dolores considers this. "Fine," she finally says, but the wrinkled corners of her mouth turn down. "Have you heard from Ryan?"

Theresa shakes her head, and Dolores frowns. "Mr. Cohen called today."

"And...?"

"Nothing," Theresa sighs and places the two pounds of hamburger meat in the refrigerator.

"What did he want?" Dolores asks. "Surely he wanted to kn--"

"Ma! Just...he just wanted to know if I'd heard from Ryan."

Dolores clucks her tongue disapprovingly. "You told him? Theresa, that man has enough to worry about without you getting him involved in this."

"Ma!" Theresa glares. "Ryan was like a son to the Cohens, and a brother to Seth. I think they want to know, they deserve to know if something's happened to Ryan."

"Such impudence!" Dolores clucks her tongue again. "In my day, if we spoke like that to our parents, we'd get a..."

"...Whipping. I know, Ma." Theresa rolls her eyes and walks out of the kitchen. She enters her bedroom. She and Ryan had been sharing it. The rough, unfinished oaken desk is in the corner, a small lap on it. Ryan had been planning to glaze it over with a honey colored wood finish.

Theresa slips off her inexpensive sandals and walks across the hall to the bathroom. Ryan's towels are still in there, hanging on the towel racks to dry. Theresa sniffs as she pulls the white towel to her face, breathing in Ryan's post-shower scent. This is all she has left of him, for now. Hopefully her arms will be able to hold Ryan the next time she smells his bodily fragrance.

The shower beats down relentlessly on Theresa's tanned skin. She scrubs the nonexistent dirt off her body, imagining that she is Ryan. He comes home with the grime clinging to skin; even after a shower Ryan cannot manage to escape the filth. It is a part of his life now, their life, the life that he's trying to build for their baby. The life that he so carefully planned and stacked that is now falling apart.

Theresa doesn't even realize she's crying until the water pressure trickles down and she gives up on a long, relaxing shower. The water streaming down her face after the shower's been turned off is salty against her lips, stinging and biting. She licks her lips to draw in as much of the taste as she possibly can, for it reminds her of Ryan.

There were nights when sweat mixed with saliva and the tears of sheer pleasure passed from Theresa's mouth to Ryan's. Those days are over though. The nights are gone and so is Ryan.

Toweling herself off, Theresa walks back into her room, turbaned. She goes over to the dresser and opens one of three drawers housing Ryan's clothes. A few of the clothes are gone; Ryan must've come back while she was out and taken a few necessities. She can't help but shiver for Ryan breathed this air God knows how long ago.

Maybe he even came back yesterday, he's near, Theresa can almost smell him if she tries hard enough. She knows she's only kidding herself. Ryan probably came back when he went to Mr. Gonzalez's house and she's only smelling the Ryan imbedded into his clothes.

She takes out a pair of Ryan's sweatpants and a drab gray t-shirt. On second thought she folds the clothes and replaces them in the drawer. No, Theresa tells herself, Ryan might come back and she wouldn't want his clothes to be out of place, or smelling like her. He might come back when she's asleep and if she's wearing them he can't really take them now, can he?

Again, she's only kidding herself. Ryan wouldn't risk it. He wouldn't come back, knowing full well that Theresa and her mother were in the house. He's not coming back, period. Theresa can kid herself all she wants but the facts remain facts.

"Theresa?"

"Yes, Ma?" Theresa closes Ryan's drawer and quickly puts on a pair of her own pajamas. They're covered in small flying pigs and Ryan used to tease her without end about them. Her rounded stomach peeks through at the bottom and the pant legs would convince anyone that she was preparing for a flood but Theresa doesn't care.

There's no one to impress around here, no one to be mindful of. Her mother certainly doesn't care and Ryan's not here to care.

"Eddie called while you were in the shower," Dolores tells her daughter. Theresa enters the kitchen where Dolores is stirring a mug of coffee. The steam swirls up into her face, clouding the tanned, wrinkled skin slightly and making the woman's eyes tear.

Theresa sighs and walks over to the phone.

"Do you want anything?" Dolores asks while Theresa dials.

Theresa shakes her head no and presses the phone to her ear.

"Let me make you a cup of coffee," urges Dolores, and Theresa waves her off.

"Hello?"

"Theresa, that you?"

"Uh-huh."

Eddie pauses and Theresa can hear him breathing raggedly and she wonders if he's drunk or getting into fights, or both.

"Well?" Theresa taps her foot impatiently against the linoleum floor of the kitchen, her mother clucking disapprovingly as she pours the coffee into a cup for Theresa.

"I want a second chance, Theresa," Eddie finally says, just as Theresa's decided to hang up. She stays on the line, catching the end of his statement. She hasn't heard it all but she's heard enough to know what he wants.

She sighs. Eddie is just like the showerhead: relentless. "Eddie…" Theresa sighs, "Ryan's missing, and—"

Eddie interrupts. "I know he's missing Theresa," says he, "but what about us? There's no reason you shouldn't be happy just because he's gone."

"Ryan makes me happy," Theresa says quietly. She doesn't want to have a screaming match with Eddie that ends in him apologizing and her promising to stay. She just wants Ryan.

"He doesn't love you, you know," Eddie says harshly, "Why don't you let me love you?"

Theresa's eyes narrow to slits. "Don't you talk to me like that, Eddie," she warns. "Ryan makes me happy," she repeats firmly. "You obviously don't give a rat's ass what happens to him. You just want me." And then she laughs, realizing how silly that sounds. Of course Eddie wants her; he's loved her and always been second best in Theresa's eyes, with Ryan around.

She may have dealt with Eddie a little cruelly but Eddie's not the one for her. She loves Ryan, even if it's unrequited love. Ryan will take her of her, he'll even marry her, and they'll be linked together by their child, whether Ryan is the father or not.

"Please, Theresa, just give me a second cha—"

"Jesus, Eddie! I'm having a baby and Ryan's going to raise it; he's most likely the father." Theresa hears her mother clucking again behind her for her use of Jesus' name.

Eddie lowers his voice. "Now that's unfair, Theresa."

It is. Theresa knows that the father of her baby is more than likely Eddie, and not Ryan. But Ryan is going to raise the child like it's his own, even if it's not. That's the only way Theresa will have it and Eddie has to understand.

"I didn't mean it like that, Eddie," Theresa apologizes. She's sick of feeling bad about her actions, her verbalizations. But she's got to. "Look, can we just be friends for right now?"

"Definitely." Theresa can practically see Eddie's eyes glinting with excitement. She's leading him on and she knows it but it's the only way she can get him to cooperate. "So, about Ryan…"

"Yeah?" Suddenly interested, Theresa listens intently, ignoring her mother's attempts to get her to drink the coffee, which is apparently cooling by the second. The way Dolores is carrying on the coffee will be an iceberg of frozen brown by the time Theresa drinks it.

"Nevermind," Eddie rushes, "I don't know anything…" Theresa can hear him take the phone away from his ear and talk to someone, but unfortunately she can't hear what he's saying.

"Okay, Eddie." Theresa knows Eddie's not telling her something…or at least he's acting like it. Her suspicion is rising faster than heat from the asphalt road after a rain. "I'm tired…" she yawns convincingly, "I'll talk to you tomorrow or something."

"Okay, babe." Theresa can see the grin on Eddie's face grow wider and wider. "Theresa…thanks for a second chance," he adds, and she grimaces, hanging up the phone.

"Theresa! Mind your manners!" The henpecking by her mother starts as soon as the phone is back in its cradle. "And don't say 'Jesus'."

"Yes, Ma."

"Drink your coffee…oh, by now it's probably ice-cold. Let me heat it up for you."

"No, Ma, it's okay. Really." Theresa smiles at Dolores believably as she sips the coffee. It's ice cold, but no way is Theresa giving her mother the satisfaction of being right. Dolores clucks again.

"Kids these days…" she murmurs, smiling warmly at Theresa as she walks out of the kitchen and turns off the light, leaving Theresa in the dark.

And Theresa sits, drinking chilled coffee in the dark and watching the moon emerge from behind a blue-gray cloudbank and she hopes Ryan is out there somewhere watching the same moon.


	3. Three

Theresa prays that one of the Cohens will pick up as the phone rings once, twice, three times.

"Theresa?" asks Mr. Cohen, picking up just before the answering machine. Kirsten was out getting a massage. He'd managed to convince her that it would be good for her, that he'd wait patiently by the phone for Seth or Theresa's call or even Ryan's unlikely call.

"Hi, Mr. Cohen," Theresa breathes. "I-uh…well…"

"Yes, yes, go on," Sandy prods even though Theresa doesn't sound like she's going to be passing out good news today.

"I asked around, Mr. Cohen. Really, I did. But no one could help me. And Eddie…" Theresa stops to catch her breath, tears spring to her eyes and she vainly tries to wipe them away. They keep coming and battering her cheeks and reddening her nose with an air of defeat.

"Eddie what, Theresa?" Sandy racks his brain for Eddie…oh yes, the one who crashed that party where Ryan ended up in the pool. He's the one Theresa was going to marry, before… Okay. He has to take this one step at a time and not get ahead of himself. He has to let the girl talk and hope she'll tell the truth.

"He was…well, actually he tried to get back together with me…saying…Ryan's out of the picture…like he knew something…but then he said…he doesn't know anything…" Theresa said. She wasn't sure how much sense she'd just made, but she'd gotten everything out the only way she knew how. She breathes in a futile attempt to steady her nerves, stop or at least slow down the tears.

"Theresa, calm down," says Sandy, although he himself is having trouble breathing. Theresa knows what he must be thinking…that it was Eddie who did this. He's probably got the police on the other line, telling them to arrest Eddie for being involved in Ryan's absconding.

"Mr. Cohen," Theresa wails, "It wasn't Eddie, I know it wasn't…I don't think he knows…honestly, Mr. Cohen, I think he was just leading me on…" And a fresh batch of tears has just cooked in her tear ducts and she pops them out of the oven. For Theresa cannot be sure of this; she led Eddie on as well. Although, hers was for a useful purpose: locate Ryan, whereas his was for a selfish purpose: re-claiming her.

"Okay Theresa, I believe you," Mr. Cohen tries to reassure the girl, but it's hopeless. She's bawling without end and she doesn't believe him, doesn't believe his assurance that he believes her. It's hard to, when Sandy's unenthusiastic, lackluster voice betrays his real beliefs to Theresa.

"Mr. Cohen, I just don't know what to do…" Theresa says, her voice lowered quite some bit and he can tell that the worst of her crying is over. For now.

Theresa doesn't know why she's telling this to Mr. Cohen, who is probably thinking the same thoughts as she and is, if possible, even more distraught than she is. Maybe it's because he made Ryan happy, took him in and gave him hope. Maybe it's because she wants Mr. Cohen to do the same for her.

"Well." Sandy sighs. He has no idea what he's going to do and Kirsten was supposed to be home from her relaxing day thirty minutes ago. He has to stay strong. For Theresa, for Kirsten. For Ryan. Sandy has to be the rock in this situation, for Ryan is gone and someone must fill the gaping hole he's left. He has to pretend that he's unaffected, because that's what Ryan would do. "Why don't you come over? Are you in any condition to drive?"

Theresa nods, and then realizes that Mr. Cohen is on the phone, not sitting across from her sharing a cup of tea and a bit of gossip. "Yeah, I think so." She sniffles. She's going to the Cohens, from there she can figure it all out. Yes, that sounds about right. It sounds rational and damn it, time consuming. Theresa wants to be out on the field searching for Ryan but she knows it's irrational.

Besides, with the help of Kirsten and Sandy she's sure they'll be able to find Ryan. They will find Ryan. They have to. To Theresa, it's not a matter of 'if we find him' but rather, 'when we find him', for without Ryan Theresa is done. Not finding him is not an option.

Her already crippled life cannot be paralyzed too.

Theresa scribbles a note to her mother on the rough, raw wooden desk. She leaves it on the counter in the kitchen and grabs a banana. She'll need the small boost of energy the potassium will give her, that, and Theresa knows Dolores will be on her case when she finds out that she's gone to Newport.

She drives to Newport and her nerves are acting up. Her car is all over the place and she's seen her fair share of the finger and most of the cars she's zoomed by have honked angrily at her.

Theresa is concentrating just enough to get her to Newport in one piece. She doesn't think she'd be able to search for Ryan if she was broken. She's already cracked at the surface; she realizes just how much she needs Ryan now that she's gone. She shouldn't have bugged him ceaselessly about that damned screen door. In fact, Theresa thinks she'll fix it herself. If Ryan comes home. No, definitely not. When Ryan comes home. Because he's going to come home and they are going to live…ever after. He has to.

So wrapped up in the voices of her mind, Theresa is at the Cohens house and ringing the doorbell before she can collect her thoughts to form rational sentences when they greet her.

Sandy answers the door. He's in dire need of a haircut, and his graying eyebrows (yes, he's begun to gray in a matter of a few weeks!) are more unruly than ever. And, although Ryan had fine, fair eyebrows Theresa can't help but think of him when she sees Sandy's.

"Theresa, come in," Sandy says dully. She dutifully follows him into the kitchen, a sudden bout of anger flaring in her. If only Ryan could see Sandy now…he's not the same. He's not he same at all. Theresa is angry at Ryan now. He did this. If Ryan was here, Sandy wouldn't be…empty.

Sandy puts a plate of cookies in front of Theresa. "Nestlé Tollhouse," he explains when she stares curiously at him. Mr. Cohen has an interesting approach to dealing with worry.

"I was thinking, waiting for you to get here," Sandy starts, while Theresa hesitantly grabs a cookie and nibbles on it. She doesn't feel like eating, although she feels empty too. Empty is good. It helps her forget the task at hand and focus on…nothing. That's about all Theresa can handle just yet, she's reached full capacity and if she's on emotional overload she knows she'll have a nervous breakdown. "And I think we need to take this matter out of our own hands."

"The police?" asks Theresa, although she's concentrating more on the cookie than Mr. Cohen. It's easier to do it like this.

Sandy shakes his head. "Ryan doesn't like police. There's no need to involve them yet." Theresa laughs. It's not exactly up to Ryan anymore, is it? But truthfully, Theresa would rather not get the police involved. Ever since the cops stormed into her small house, carelessly knocking down the door, she'd held a grudge against them. They'd taken her brother Arturo away, beating viciously at him even when he didn't resist. That was not right. The police were corrupted, Theresa was sure. It was best to deal with them later.

"So, what were you thinking?" Theresa picks up another cookie and bites into it. Mm…sinfully delicious. She bets her baby is in heaven right about now. The baby. The baby. The baby Ryan wanted to raise even if it wasn't his. Theresa sighs and knows that she can only hope Ryan will be returned to her before the birth. She can hope all she wants but it doesn't lift the anchor slowly sinking to the bottom of her stomach.

"Private investigator." Sandy munches loudly on a Granny Smith apple. "I've got some knowledge of the field; we've used P.I.'s to track down parents before, runaways too."

A private investigator. A P.I. It sounds…dangerous to Theresa. But Ryan's in danger, so she guesses it's the nature of the field. Still, she's not so sure about this investigator. What if the P.I.'s are corrupted, just like the police? Will they be rough; will they be careless and vindictive?

Sandy seems to sense Theresa's troubled thoughts. "Don't worry, Theresa," says he, comfortingly patting her back, "I've got connections. I'll get us the best damn investigator there is, god damn it!" He's raised his voice to almost a squeak, and then, looking up at the ceiling, he begins to whisper so quietly that Theresa knows he must be talking to God.

He squeezes his eyes shut and Theresa spots a tiny salted tear trickle desperately down his face, vacillating on the very edge of his jaw before plunging onto the counter with a _splat!_

Theresa's moved to tears. Sandy cares about Ryan so damn much. He really fucking cares. Theresa's not half-witted. She knows that Ryan though the Cohens didn't care, that they were glad even, to have to him out of the house. She knows how incredibly fucking wrong he was, too, and wishes he could see the scene that is unraveling right now.

So it is that when Kirsten returns home with her arms full of groceries, she finds Sandy and Theresa crying in the kitchen she's practically forbidden to cook in. Feeling a little despondent herself, Kirsten cries for the second time in an hour. For at the supermarket she cried when she couldn't find the cereal Ryan and Seth loved to eat, couldn't remember the name of the damn sugary mess.

Pathetic, Kirsten knows, and decides to save the story for a laugh later. Because, as she sits down next to Theresa and holds the girl close, she knows they're all going to need a little sunshine in their dreary day.

* * *

"You'll start today? That's great. Thank you so much…you don't know how much this means to my family and me." Sandy hangs up the phone and looks at two expectant red-eyed women. They've finished their cry, but only because their tear ducts have reached their quota for the day, the hour, or the minute, Sandy's not quite certain.

Kirsten's told Theresa and Sandy the supermarket incident, and even she laughed at her own wretched state. And then, after finishing off the first batch of cookies—Sandy baked two—Sandy dialed up his office and got the number of Petey Corrigan, one of the best P.I.'s and Sandy's personal friend.

"What now?" Kirsten asks, and Sandy hugs her. She looks like she's ready to turn on the waterworks again.

"Um…" Theresa starts timidly, "Where's Seth?" She's been wondering about the lack of curly hair and sarcasm and witty banter. Of course, this is no time for witty banter, as Ryan is missing. "With Summer?"

Sandy and Kirsten exchange a disconsolate glance and Kirsten begins to bawl inconsolably. Sandy rubs small circles on her back, tucks her hair behind her ear and whispers in it. Kirsten nods and walks up the stairs.

Theresa is quite taken aback. "Was it something I said?" she asks worriedly.

Sandy shakes his head. "You didn't know…couldn't have known. Theresa, Seth's gone. He went on a sailing trip right after Ryan left and left us with just a note."

"Jesus…" Theresa starts, and then remembers her mother. She silently asks Jesus—and her mother—to forgive her. "I had no idea," she says. "Ryan never mentioned—"

"That's because Ryan didn't know," interrupts Sandy. After the initial wave of shock has passed over Theresa, she has to ask.

"Why didn't you tell him? He would've helped you look for him…oh, it's my fault, isn't it? If I wasn't having the baby Ryan wouldn't have had to leave and Seth wouldn't have left either." Theresa's eyes cloud over with tears. It's her fault. She knew it. It's all her fault. Not only has she managed to drive one of Sandy's sons away, in doing so she prodded their other son to leave as well. She's a wreck. She's taboo to this family. She's got to leave before she does any more damage.

Theresa stands up and begins to walk out of the kitchen towards the front door. "I'm sorry, Mr. Cohen," she says bleakly, "I think I should go."

"No, Theresa, wait! It's not your fault…not in any way. Come here." Sandy wraps Theresa in a tight hug and she can hardly breathe.

"Um, Mr. Cohen?" she says breathlessly, pushing him away. "I can't breathe."

"Oh. Sorry." Sandy looks embarrassed. "Sorry. Look…just don't go. I—we—we want you here. With us." His eyes beseech her to stay a while. Maybe she can. Maybe he's right…it's not entirely her fault anyways.

"Really?" she asks hopefully. Truth be told, Theresa doesn't know if she has the stamina to drive back to Chino, that, and she doesn't want to face her mother either. She wants to wait here, by the phone, for Petey Corrigan's phone call. Any news, good or bad, will lessen the heavy, guilt-ridden weight that's resting on her heart.

"We'd like nothing more." Sandy manages to smile broadly, a mask, that's all it is. A mask is so useful, notes Theresa. It hides the pain with a shield of flowers and sunshine.

* * *

Theresa wakes up in a strange bed. Instinctively she looks over and is quite relieved to see the other side of the bed empty, not slept on. Right. She's at the Cohen home, in the guest bedroom, because, as nicely as the pool house was offered to her, Theresa could not spend the night in there, filled with shadows and lingering memories of Ryan.

She glances over at the clock; it's five-thirty. If she calls her mother now she can probably catch her before work. Theresa picks up the phone, dials, and readies herself for a earful.

"Ma, it's Theresa."

"Theresa! Where are you? You had me scared half to death. I was ready to call the police. Are you hurt? Why didn't you call?" And the bombarding begins.

"Ma, ma, calm down," says Theresa, although she feels like laughing. She's fine, she wants to shout, she's fine but really she's not. She's not fine but no one has to know because she's fine! "I'm at the Cohens' house, Ma. I'm going to stay here for a few days and help out Mr. And Mrs. Cohen in their search for Ryan."

"You could have called!" Dolores screeches, hurt. Her daughter didn't call her. This isn't like Theresa; the Theresa she raised has impeccable manners and always calls to let her know where she is. The Theresa she knows is rational and level-headed.

"I know, Ma. I'm sorry." Theresa sighs. "Do you need anything? Or is it okay if I stay here?"

Dolores is quiet for a moment; the guilt trip. "Look, Ma, I know you don't want me here but it's important to me."

"Fine." Dolores pauses, "But you'd best call me every day."

Theresa is giddy despite herself. "Thank you Ma, I love you. Listen, can you go over to Mr. Gonzalez's tomorrow? I promised him I'd come every few days but if I'm going to be staying here…"

"Consider it done," Dolores cuts in, "I've got to go if I want to catch my bus."

Theresa hangs up the phone and leans back into the goose-down pillows. Her head sinks down gratefully and she realizes she's barely gotten any sleep. Eyes closing rapidly, Theresa sees Kirsten discreetly peek into the room and then quietly shut the door. She'll just drift off for a few minutes…

* * *

"Theresa, wake up honey." Kirsten smoothes Theresa's brown hair back; a motherly instinct. "I've got breakfast; Sandy made it, even though it's three-thirty."

Theresa opens her eyes and groggily takes in her surroundings. Kirsten's sitting on the bed and playing with her hair, and she's just told Theresa that it's three-thirty. As in, three-thirty in the afternoon. Theresa's never slept this late; she's never been able to afford to do so.

There's the smell of bacon and eggs next to her…oh God. Theresa gets up and pushes Kirsten out of the way, muttering "I'm sorry," before she reaches the toilet in the guest bathroom.

Kirsten's behind her in a moment, holding her hair back and encouraging Theresa. "It's okay sweetie, this is natural." Theresa doesn't want it to be natural. She doesn't want Kirsten to be holding back her hair; that was a job delegated to Ryan. But Ryan's not here, and Theresa's still going to experience morning sickness. Immediately Theresa feels better after heaving her stomach into the toilet. But she also feels guilty. Kirsten's trying to help Theresa and all Theresa is doing is wishing Ryan were here. She shouldn't do that, but she can't help it.

Kirsten leaves Theresa alone in the bathroom to wash up, and goes to talk with Sandy. She walks downstairs and into the living room, where Sandy's on the phone. That's funny, because Kirsten didn't hear the phone ring. She reckons she was busy with Theresa.

"Petey? So soon?" Sandy is saying. Without further ado Kirsten runs into the kitchen and picks up the other phone, listening in. "So, is it good news or bad news?"

Petey clears his throat and Kirsten's getting anxious. "Mr. Cohen…" he begins.


	4. Four

"…we've located a body."

"What?" Three voices simultaneously utter their disbelief. For it seems as though Theresa has picked up the phone in the guest bedroom as well.

"My god…" Kirsten cries, "Petey, is it him? Where is it? Petey?"

"Kirsten," Sandy says imploringly, "Let Corrigan talk."

"Thanks, Sandy. Now…nothing's been verified as of yet, Mrs. Cohen. We'll need a DNA test and an autopsy," Petey says, before Kirsten cuts him off again.

"Where is he? I can be there in half an hour if I need to. What do you need for the DNA test? Clothes? Toothbrush? I'll get it, Mr. Corrigan," Kirsten assures the man.

"Kirsten!" Sandy says. "Petey, where are you? Or, where did you locate the body?"

"I'm in Rialto right now, Sandy," Petey tells Sandy, "The body was lying in an alleyway…"

"Tell me the truth, Petey. Does it look like Ryan?" Petey knows what Ryan looks like. All Sandy wants is the truth. Sandy and Kirsten wait downstairs while Theresa is anxiously curled up in the fetal position, phone pressed up against her ear. She needs to know. Right. About. Now.

Theresa wants to cry. They've found a body. It's probably Ryan's. Oh, and it's all her fault. She doesn't know what she did to make God punish her like this but nevertheless Theresa prays, promises, that if Ryan is returned to her—alive—she will start going to church every Sunday and will mind her mother better.

"Sandy," Petey's voice cracks uneasily, "That's the thing…we can't be sure because the head is crushed, severed from the body. The body is mangled, but it does resemble Ryan. Look, maybe you better come down, and we can sort this out. Bring some clothes, maybe a toothbrush like Kirsten said. Dental records may be useful."

Theresa slowly sets the phone back in its cradle, while downstairs Kirsten is doing the same. She cannot believe this. Who would do such a thing to her Ryan? Theresa knows the body can't be Ryan's, it just can't. She can hope, but that's about it. Prayers to God won't save Ryan now, if such a fate has indeed befallen him.

She doesn't even hear Kirsten walking up the stairs. Theresa doesn't hear her name being called, doesn't feel the arms that envelop her in a comforting hug. She's deadened, lost all feeling. Ryan… Mr. Corrigan wouldn't have called unless there was a great chance it was Ryan, right? Theresa wants to believe the opposite, wants Petey to be wrong, but what if he isn't? 

He has to be wrong. There is no other option for Theresa.

"I miss him," says Kirsten, and Theresa nods, silently agreeing. "I just…wish I'd been more accepting of him. He knows I didn't like him at first but he grew on me. I never really showed it…Oh…"

And now Theresa finds herself consoling Kirsten, for the woman is so distraught that Theresa's own doubts and worst fears must be pushed to the wayside.

"Kirsten," Theresa soothes, "He knows you cared for him. And he loved you."

"He did? But…oh, why did he leave?" Theresa sighs; he left because of her but telling Kirsten this will probably make her angry and upset with her.

"He loves you," Theresa repeats firmly, "And…he had to leave…I'm sorry, it's my fault…if—when—we find Ryan he'll come and live with you, okay? I don't need him…I shouldn't have taken him away from you."

Theresa wants to laugh. It's as far from the truth as she can get. If—when—they find Ryan, she's chaining him to their bed so she can keep track of him. That, or she'll plant those mini cameras on his clothes so she knows where he is at all times. She needs him. She needed to take Ryan away from the Cohens. She didn't mean to, but she did. In a way, Theresa pushed him to come back to Chino, because, knowing Ryan, he'd do anything to help out an old friend, especially if they were pregnant and the baby was quite possibly his. Enter Theresa, stage left.

"Oh, no sweetie, it's not your fault." Kirsten sighs. "If—when—Ryan is found, you two will have to live in the pool house."

"I couldn't…impose on you like that." Theresa smiles feebly. Kirsten is too nice. But she can't. Ryan won't; that Theresa knows for a fact. He's too proud to ask for help and if he won't even cash the checks the Cohens send him, why in the world would they think he'd be okay with living under their roof?

"I'm not taking no for an answer, Theresa," Kirsten says gently, and smiles a little despite the ghastly news they've just received. "Let's just find Ryan for now, okay?"

Theresa nods her head and lies back down on her pillow, suddenly drained of energy again. Kirsten clucks her tongue, though not as sternly as Dolores, and tucks the comforter around Theresa so she's snug and cozy.

"Get some rest," Kirsten orders, kissing Theresa on the head. Ryan was lucky to have a woman like Kirsten caring for him, Theresa decides. She's friendly and sweet, and, quite frankly, not like the fakes that populate Newport.

"Thank you," whispers Theresa, as Kirsten turns the lights off and shuts the door. It's dark and warm in the room now, although not stifling, and Theresa drifts off to sleep in a matter of minutes.

--

Theresa walks down the stairs and hears Sandy and Kirsten talking animatedly.

"But Sandy, the girl deserves to be there with us. She's family to Ryan, don't you forget that!"

"The baby, Kirsten. The baby. All I'm saying is, I don't think it would be healthy for her to see the body, if it is Ryan's…in that state. Come on, we'll leave a note for her. It's not that I don't think she should be there, but she could…go into shock or something."

Theresa pokes her head timidly around the doorpost into the living room, where Kirsten is curled up in a ball against Sandy. She smiles wanly.

"Oh, hi, sweetie." Kirsten looks surprised to see Theresa awake and shoots Sandy eye daggers.

"I couldn't help but overhear…" Theresa says softly, averting her eyes from Kirsten's motherly gaze. "And, with all due respect, Mr. Cohen, I'd like to be there. I can handle it, I promise you."

Sandy shrugs. "I don't think it's a good idea," says he, "If you get agitated—well, just think of the baby, Theresa. All I'm saying is—"

"I know, Mr. Cohen," Theresa interrupts, "But honestly, I'll likely be more upset if you don't bring me along."

"See, Sandy?" Kirsten smiles at Theresa and glares at her husband. "I told you she'd want to go. It'll be fine…besides, it's not like we have to _see_ the body if we don't want to, right?"

"Well, identification…" Sandy considers this, "Never mind. Fine, you can come. I want to take a look at the body after the autopsy and DNA tests, but you don't have to." He stands up and walks out of the room, saying, "Sheesh. Women. I liked it better when the men outnumbered the women around here."

"Come sit down." Kirsten invitingly pats the sofa cushion next to her. Theresa is more than happy to oblige; her legs are leaden and she feels like her body is bogged down with weights.

"How long does it take to run the DNA test?" Theresa asks.

Kirsten laughs quietly, but it is really more a smile. "Beats me. We're going to leave after dinner, drive to Corona—it's right by Rialto—and stay in a hotel for the night. Tomorrow, Mr. Corrigan's getting the autopsy and DNA test done, if they can be done in the same day. And I guess we'll stay up there, if Sandy wants to, until the results are in. But personally I don't want to be there too long." Kirsten shudders at the mere thought of staying nearby Rialto, quite the shady town with a constantly sky-rocketing crime rate.

Theresa nods. Personally she's not too scared; all of these towns aren't half as bad as people make them out to be. People like Kirsten, although it's how she was brought up, and she's at the bottom of the offending ladder.

"I hope Ryan and I can be more open with each other when he's back. Oh, what I wouldn't do to be holding him in my arms right now." Kirsten sighs and tilts her head back, hoping to force the newly sprouted tears back into her tear ducts. It doesn't work.

Same here, thinks Theresa. She wishes she were in her bed in the house she grew up in, Ryan in her arms and the faint hum of the refrigerator lulling them to sleep. Of course she's not back in her bed and Ryan's not safe in her arms but Theresa considers herself an optimist. It's hard not to be pessimistic at times like these though.

Theresa wills herself to stay strong. For Ryan. She has to muster up the courage and resolve he would have in this same situation, because he is not here and there's no one to take his place.

She closes her eyes and lets the tears fall silently onto her lap, welts of misery darkening the cloth on her legs. Theresa shivers, feeling, remembering Ryan as he was around her. A tiny sob escapes her firmly closed lips, and Theresa wants to cry for her tears. Kirsten doesn't need this right now. Theresa doesn't want to be such a burden on the poor woman, who has so much to worry about herself.

Ears suddenly perk, and Theresa can hear, can feel the faint sound and vibrations of Kirsten trying to bawl softly. She opens her eyes and sees Kirsten's eyes squinted shut with the encumbrance of tears and trying to stifle them. The older woman's eyes stretch open, meeting Theresa's.

And then the two of them collapse into a new bout of sobbing.

Sandy peers into the living room, sees Kirsten and Theresa holding each other for dear life, crying freely. He walks over to them, sits down next to Kirsten and wraps his arms around her.

"Shh…it's going to be okay," soothes Sandy, for what else is there to do? "You don't have to cry."

But of course they do. Ryan wouldn't have it any other way now, would he? Sandy's lip begins to tremble in spite of himself, and soon there are three people holding each other close, bawling.

Sandy manages to compose himself temporarily. "You'll see," he tells Kirsten and Theresa, "We're going to find Ryan—alive. And we're going to hear from Seth soon, I just know it."

Seth. Almost guiltily, Sandy realizes that he hasn't thought of his son, his biological son at least, for at least a few hours. And that's not right. It sickens Sandy, for how could he forget that curly-haired comic; his offspring?

What would Seth do if he were here, Sandy asks himself. The tall, skinny boy would probably make a completely inappropriate joke that would no doubt cast a few rays through the dense cloud resting over the Cohens' and Theresa's heads.

"Seth always knew how to cheer people up," says Sandy forlornly.

"Seth," whispers Kirsten, whimpering.


	5. Five

Sandy looks over at his wife, who is sleeping in the passenger seat. In the back, Theresa is sleeping soundly as well. Sandy wonders why sleep comes to them so easily, when it has eluded him for the past three nights, a shadow dancing just out of his reach in the darkest hours of pitch-black mornings. The sun never seems to shine then, its all-mighty rays unable to penetrate the thick gloom of an unpromising, starless cloudy night.  
  
They've been driving for fifty minutes now. Sandy's GPS speaks to him and dully he responds with the wheel, turning right onto North Haven Avenue. According to the built-in direction service that Sandy affectionately refers to as 'Denise', the hotel will be coming up on the left in 0.1 miles.  
  
He can't help but wonder if he's doing the right thing, if they're doing the right thing. Once Petey has the proper materials for the tests, it will be a few days before the results come in, before Sandy and his family can sleep soundly.  
  
Sandy had hesitated, coming to stay in Corona until the results were in, one, because if Seth called the house, he and Kirsten wouldn't be there to answer, and two, because...well, because Sandy himself wasn't quite sure he'd be able to handle the results—if the body was Ryan's—in person.  
  
But the phone made things seem less real. And Sandy needed real. He needed concrete evidence delivered right into his hands, not his eardrums.  
  
Denise speaks to Sandy, and he quickly makes a left as the Hilton Ontario Airport comes into view. He looks over at Kirsten, and cranes his head back to see a still-sleeping Theresa. Sandy doesn't want to wake them up but they can't sleep in the car all night.  
  
"Kirsten, wake up." Sandy gently shakes his wife, who murmurs inarticulately and reluctantly opens her eyes. He gives her a shaky smile, remembering where—and why—they've driven to this hotel. "We're here."  
  
Kirsten nods and closes her eyes for a moment, sighing. Sandy drives around the circle to the front entrance of the hotel, where young valets stop their overt gum-chewing and straighten their jackets.  
  
Sandy turns around, smiling at Theresa. So carefree, without worry, that Sandy fears waking her, for in her waking hours Theresa is troubled, too troubled for a girl of her age.  
  
"Wake up, Theresa." Sandy gentle prods Theresa. She opens her eyes immediately, she's scared. Her eyes soften to a knowing hue when she realizes that Sandy is there.  
  
"How long have I been sleeping?" she asks, sitting up straight and unbuckling her seatbelt.  
  
"Less than an hour," Sandy tells her. "Come on, let's get out of the car so we can go to sleep."  
  
Theresa nods. Mr. Cohen always knows what to do. She wishes that she'd been the one the Cohens had taken in, because in the several months Ryan's been with them, Sandy's done him a lifetime of good.  
  
Through sleep-clouded eyes dulled by the lackluster promise of a disappointing tomorrow, Theresa stands by as Sandy checks into the hotel. She allows herself to be led into the elevator and up to the seventh floor.  
  
To her surprise, her bags are already on the suitcase stand by the window and her bed has been turned down for the night, a green-foiled chocolate mint lying on her pillow.  
  
Sandy bids her goodnight and leaves her alone with Kirsten. Theresa is guided to her suitcase, where she grabs a large sleep-shirt—Ryan's, to be exact—and manages to change into it.  
  
"The bed's over here, Theresa," laughs Kirsten tiredly, and takes Theresa by the elbow and gets her under the covers.  
  
In her half-awake state, Theresa makes a mental note to thank Mrs. Cohen in the morning. The woman is a godsend, honestly. She must be entirely too exhausted and yet she's seeing Theresa to bed before she thinks of herself.  
  
"Are you cold?" Kirsten asks, gently tucking the covers around Theresa's shoulders. Theresa shakes her head no. Kirsten hesitates, and then sits down on the edge of the bed and smoothes a lock of Theresa's hair off of her face. "Do you want me to sing to you?"  
  
"Okay," mumbles Theresa. Kirsten feels like family to her. She's so warm and welcoming and not snobby like Theresa first imagined her to be. Kirsten is the mother Ryan never had growing up, the mother who isn't perfect and makes mistakes but she's human and that's the part of her that is so endearing.  
  
And Kirsten begins to sing to Theresa, as if she were her own little girl. "Hush little baby don't say a word, Mama's gonna buy you a mockingbird, and if that mocking bird won't sing, Mama's gonna buy you a diamond ring, if that diamond ring turns brass, Mama's gonna buy you a looking glass..."  
  
Theresa remembers her mother singing her Spanish melodies when she was three, four, five...Ryan singing to her while he helped her clean a scrape from falling out of a tree at age nine...Ryan singing outside of her window when they were twelve and she was mad at him for liking Maya Peters...her best girlfriends—admittedly though, Theresa had few—singing to her on her fourteenth birthday.  
  
She remembers kissing Ryan while her jewelry box with the ballerina inside that twirled while a lullaby played was tinkling in the background. Every other memory fades away as Theresa slips off to her dreams, aided by the sweet, sure, hopeful voice of Kirsten Cohen.  
  
As soon as Theresa begins to snore lightly, Kirsten turns off the light and heads back to her and Sandy's room, which is two doors down.  
  
Sandy's already got the lights off when she comes in, but she can see his silhouette by the bay window.  
  
His back is facing her but he speaks to her. "Ryan's out there somewhere, in that great big black hole of a night."  
  
Kirsten joins Sandy at the window and gazes thoughtfully at the moon, brighter and closer than it's been in a month. She doesn't say anything, but hopes Ryan is somewhere out there too, watching the full moon on the clear night and thinking of her.  
  
After a few minutes of silent contemplation, both Cohens decide it would be wise to get some sleep.  
  
Sandy leans over and drowsily kisses his wife, who is sitting up in bed with her hands clasped together.  
  
"We're going to find him. I can feel it in my bones," says Sandy, after Kirsten—equally drowsy—returns his sloppy, wet, chock-full-of-love kiss.  
  
"Dear God, I hope you're right," Kirsten replies, sliding down and turning on her side to signal that she's ready to sleep.  
  
"Me too," says Sandy, before letting his mind wander, "Me too."

* * *

Dolores busily dusts the unfinished wooden desk and the curtains shadowing her daughter's bed. She hasn't set foot into the room since the day Ryan left, but now there is much work to do. The air inside is hot and stifling, the lack of air conditioning ever present to nag at the nape of Dolores' neck.  
  
She pauses, looks curiously at the freshly made bed, and shakes her head. Another wrinkle found in the bedspread; perfect grounds for re-starting the cleaning process and spending more time in the co-existing scents of Ryan and Theresa.  
  
First, Dolores opens the windows, letting a gentle, unobtrusive breeze tickle her neck, sticky with the sweat of labor. The air is temperate, but feels cool in contrast to the trapped heat that lives in Dolores' house.  
  
Like a lone butterfly in the sandlot by the elementary school the yellow curtains flutter languorously. The light wind rustling the curtains and a few unimportant letters of Theresa's lying on the desk, Dolores draws back the bedspread and begins to attempt perfection at making the bed once again.  
  
Breeze picking up, Dolores feels almost hopeful. She begins to sing, plumping up the pillows just so before tucking them under Theresa's bedspread, with the faded flowers that seem to smile wearily, hopelessly from one too many wash cycles at Rita's Laundromat. She smoothes out the top cover and stands by the bed to admire her handiwork, seemingly satisfied.  
  
The phone rings and Theresa hurries out of the room to answer it in the kitchen, because, while the phone in Theresa's room operates just fine, Dolores likes to busy herself in the kitchen while she has a caller on the line.  
  
The wind blows a slightly crumpled piece of paper from underneath the desk. Gaily, it prances, aided by the draft, over towards the window, the ink-smudged words on Theresa's stationary.  
  
It is not Theresa's handwriting that covers the paper.  
  
The directions, phone numbers, and possible job opportunities that fill the page are written in small, neat but hurried man's print.  
  
Wedged into the corner of the stationary in miniscule writing are two letters so small they are practically indivisible. The letters _AZ_ might catch the eye of an observant reader.  
  
Or perhaps they were two other letters at some point in time.  
  
Dolores re-enters the room as the paper drifts to the floor, guided below the bed in a terribly wrong twist of fate. Her eye does not catch the paper on its way down, or under.  
  
The way things were meant to be? With no one there to bear witness, maybe so.  
  
She lifts the small wicker wastepaper basket easily from the floor and carries it out of the room. In the kitchen, she turns it upside-down and shakes its contents into a more capacious trashcan.  
  
Dolores glances around pensively at her small, homely kitchen, the kitchen Theresa and Arturo and Ryan grew up in, eating ethnic home-cooked meals and squabbling good-naturedly.  
  
A creased, dog-eared card clings to the side of the wastepaper basket momentarily, hanging on for dear life by a strand of putty-colored chewing gum. Dolores uninterestedly shakes the basket harder, and the card drops effortlessly this time into the kitchen trashcan.  
  
If only Dolores had picked that card out herself, maybe her curiosity would've led her to read it. Now, nobody but the banana peels or the orange rinds will know what sort of offer, an invitation, one might say, a certain 'Sean' has extended towards a certain 'Ryan.' The card, dating back only a year and a half ago, will never be pored over by greedy eyes, searching for clues.  
  
No, this is not how things were supposed to be, some might argue. But sometimes, when things slip right out of our grasp without us knowing, we are supposed to let them go.

* * *

"Honey, I'm going in the shower," yells Kirsten to Sandy, who is watching TV in bed, eyes not on Jerry Springer but on the idle telephone that lies on his nightstand, taunting him with its lack of activity.  
  
"Okay," Sandy yells back. Kirsten pops her head out of the bathroom and shakes her head pitifully at Sandy. For the past two days he's been cooped up in bed, refusing to get up lest he's in dire need of the toilet.  
  
They've delivered the materials necessary for the tests and now all there is left to do is wait. And wait. And wait.  
  
Kirsten takes a long, steamy shower, swiveling the shower spigot so that different combinations of water burrow into her skin, making the lightly tanned, toned flesh ache.  
  
She tries to concentrate on the hot water flushing her cheeks but her mind refuses to stray from her two sons. And their whereabouts. Of which, Kirsten has no idea. And it makes her want to scream. This just isn't fair. What did she do to deserve this, to deserve losing both of her sons?  
  
A small cry of anguish escapes her lips, and Kirsten can hear Sandy yelling through the locked bathroom door to see if she's okay, but she remains silent. This feeling—of being slicked away by a boiling stream of water—it doesn't feel too unreasonable, too out of reach, right now.  
  
Once Kirsten's gotten out of the shower with reddened skin that burns when she towels off, she dresses in a simple pale rose tank top and white linen capris. Her feet effortlessly slide into rose sandals with a kitten heel, and she walks out of the hotel room.  
  
Kirsten knocks on Theresa's door. The girl answers it, purple bags under her eyes and a fluffy white hotel robe wrapped tightly around her drained skin. It's obvious the girl hasn't been out of her room. She's politely declined the Cohens' invitations to dine out and to go see movies while they wait for the results, opting instead to mope about her hotel room, curtains drawn and the bare minimum of lights casting shadows along the walls.  
  
She's not quite sure what she's doing here, or what she's going to say to the girl, but something needs to be said and soon.  
  
"Can I come in?" Theresa nods and steps away from the door so Kirsten can enter the room. The first thing Kirsten does is turn on a few lights, because, quite frankly, the mood Theresa has set is gloomy and downright depressing. Those are two things Kirsten could use a lot less of in her life right now.  
  
Theresa sits down on the king-sized bed in her room, curls up in her bathrobe. She's miserable, in case anyone missed _that_ memo. Ryan is gone. It's only just hit her again, but he's gone. She may not have been the dynamite, but she was definitely that one last piece of string eaten by a hungry flame before the explosion.  
  
Ryan is gone. If only she hadn't bothered him so much about that damned screen door. It was just a screen door, after all. If only she hadn't gone to Newport and lured him into temptation and a stupid one-night-stand...oh...the abortion...Eddie...  
  
"Theresa, honey, look at me." Kirsten tilts Theresa's chin upwards so she's staring her straight in the eye. "Theresa, you look terrible."  
  
"I feel ten times worse," says Theresa quietly, but not too quietly. Kirsten nods her head and hugs Theresa, the younger girl's head resting against her chest. Theresa hiccups and feels tears welling up in her eyes and a lone sob escapes her throat, rubbed dry from crying so much.  
  
"Theresa, why don't you go see your mother today? I'm sure she's been missing you greatly and you probably want to get some fresh clothes," Kirsten suggests. Theresa nods, although she wants nothing more than to sit, sheathed in darkness, alone in this very room until the results of the tests are in.  
  
"I'll go get dressed," Theresa says, after a few moments of silence in which she's calmed down a bit. She removes herself from Kirsten's embrace and goes over to her suitcase, taking out a pair of well-worn jeans and the first tank top her hands can grab.  
  
"Do you need Sandy or me to drive you?" asks Kirsten. Theresa nods.  
  
"That would be great...if it's not too much of a burden. I mean, I can take the bus—"  
  
"Theresa," Kirsten interrupts, "Don't do that. You know you're not a burden...don't be in the same mindset as Ryan..." She trails off suddenly, looks away from Theresa. Theresa can see tears gathering in the corner of Kirsten's eye and the woman angrily bats them away. Having composed herself, Kirsten turns back to Theresa. "I'm sorry. Are you ready?"  
  
Theresa's small black suitcase fits easily into the trunk of the car. She sits up front with Kirsten, who cuts the half hour drive in two, managing to pull up in front of Theresa's house in fifteen minutes. It helps that it's not even eleven in the morning, a slow time for traffic around here.  
  
Kirsten carries Theresa's suitcase to the front door. Theresa opens the screen door and feels a pang of regret against her heart. That damned screen door still isn't fixed, although by this point Theresa couldn't care less if it squeaks and is ripped in a few places. Oh, of course she cares, but she cares more about Ryan. Finding him—alive, is at the top of her to-do list, not getting a stupid door repaired.  
  
Dolores meets them inside the house. She's in the kitchen, stirring a small pot of stew at the stove. She turns and her eyes light up when she sees Theresa and Kirsten.  
  
"Theresa!" Dolores, also with bags under her eyes but not a bruised purple like Theresa's, squeezes Theresa tightly.  
  
"Ma, ma," squeaks Theresa, "I can't breathe."  
  
Dolores lets her daughter go and stares at her curiously for an uncomfortable few seconds. "You look pale." She puts her hand on her daughter's forehead. "Are you getting enough sleep?"  
  
"Yes, Ma." Theresa nods her head unconvincingly. All three women know that Theresa has tossed and turned until the wee hours of the morning since Ryan's disappearance. Dolores clucks her tongue. "All this for that..."  
  
"Ma..." warns Theresa, "Don't you dare say it." Dolores fixates her eyes on Theresa, a steely glare, but bows her head and refocuses her attention on the simmering stew.  
  
"Theresa, I'm going to go. Why don't you call us at the hotel when you want to come back?" Kirsten, slightly unnerved by Dolores' lack of friendliness, feels that it's time to go. She's sure Dolores has a reason for not being very hospitable. After all, Kirsten did 'borrow' Theresa from the old woman, who is probably struggling to get by without her almost-grown daughter to help her out.  
  
Theresa stiffly hugs Kirsten, all traces of emotion gone from her face now. The girl looks like she might pass out any minute now, that, or break down in tears. Kirsten wants to get back to the hotel, back to Sandy and back to the phone, every second closer to the moment of truth.  
  
"Thank you," she whispers into Kirsten's ear, offering her just the slightest of smiles—two corners of a mouth curving upwards.  
  
Once Kirsten's gone, Theresa turns to her mother. "Ma, why were you so rude?"  
  
"What are you talking about, Theresa?"  
  
"Ma!" Theresa shouts exasperatedly. She wants to be done with this so she can go to sleep in her own room, in her own bed still layered with the faintest traces of Ryan.  
  
"I have nothing to say to the woman. It would be awkward anyways."  
  
"You could have said hello, at least! Forget it, Ma. I'm going to sleep." Theresa storms off to her room.  
  
"I expect you over at Mr. Gonzalez's later. You owe the man a visit," shouts Dolores from the kitchen. "I'd really prefer if you went now."  
  
"I'll go later, Ma, I'm tired."  
  
Theresa can hear her mother clucking her tongue in the kitchen, probably muttering about how she has such a lack of respect for her elders. Theresa doesn't care at this point. She walks into her room, the windows open and a slight breeze cooling her nerves. Theresa looks around the room, looking for something to remind her of Ryan. She just needs one thing to trigger the happy memories and then she'll be able to sleep.  
  
After looking in the drawers and being less-than-satisfied with Ryan's present-day clothes, Theresa remembers the box of old photos and mementos from junior high she'd stashed under the bed in ninth grade.  
  
Bending down on her hands and knees, Theresa's back throbs with a dull pain. She lifts up the bed-skirt and peers beneath the bed. In the darkest corner nearest the window a crumpled up sheet of paper sits with the dust bunnies Dolores always misses when she cleans.  
  
But Theresa does not set sight on this paper, so her curiously is not drawn to it; she spots the box she's been looking for right below the sagging center of her bed. Pulling it out, Theresa coaxes quite a few dust bunnies out from their hiding spaces. She sneezes twice and then opens the box excitedly.  
  
As Theresa pores over movie stubs, Polaroid pictures, Popsicle sticks stained with the formerly sticky red syrup on a hot summer's afternoon, and the like, the crumpled paper sits not quite so innocently under her bed, unseen by prying eyes yet again—the second close call in a matter of days.  
  
The way things were meant to be? Perhaps...or maybe this pen-covered paper is bound for great things...in time.

* * *

"Mr. Gonzalez, it's Theresa, open up!" Theresa pounds impatiently on her neighbor's front door. Her mother jarred her from a pleasant sleep, in the midst of a dream of the summer before eighth grade. Chiding Theresa as usual, Dolores demanded she go over to Mr. Gonzalez's house to see how he was doing.  
  
So Theresa stands on his front stoop, waiting for Mr. Gonzalez to open the door but hoping he'll sleep through the knocks or perhaps isn't even house—though she knows this is _highly_ unlikely. Mr. Gonzalez is always home. Always.  
  
Theresa turns, after another minute or so, and walks down the steps. She's cutting across the lawns back to her house when a voice halts her.  
  
"Where do you think you're going?" Theresa turns around and Mr. Gonzalez is standing by his front door, smiling that crooked grin of his at her.  
  
She forces her teeth out in an effort to smile back and walks towards his house again.  
  
"I thought maybe you'd gone out for the day," Theresa says.  
  
Mr. Gonzalez laughs knowingly. "Theresa," he says, shaking his head, "When do I ever leave this house?"  
  
Theresa laughs along with Mr. Gonzalez as he ushers her into his house. "What brings you here today?" he asks. He takes his usual seat in the torn overstuffed armchair, seemingly more faded and aged than before. And Theresa isn't just noticing the chair.  
  
"I'm home for the day and I wanted to know if you needed anything from the store." The truth is, besides the fact that her mother forced her to come, Theresa wants information on Ryan. She knows that Mr. Gonzalez must have heard something from Ryan, because the two were quite close and Ryan is thoughtful like that. Maybe Ryan knows that Theresa will undoubtedly ask Mr. Gonzalez if he's heard from him and...  
  
"Actually, I do." Mr. Gonzalez smiles and Theresa can tell from his tone of voice that he's grateful she stopped by. "List's in the kitchen." Theresa goes into the kitchen and spots the shopping list right away, lying helpfully on the counter with an envelope full of one and ten dollar bills.  
  
"Mr. Gonzalez," Theresa calls, wanting to ask him about Ryan. She takes a deep breath and musters up just enough courage, "Have you heard from Ryan?"  
  
The old man is silent for a moment and Theresa doesn't know what to think. Has he heard from Ryan or is he sleeping or thinking? She mentally slaps herself; she's getting too worked up and paranoid about every little nuance in her life. Not everything means something, Theresa decides. Not every sigh, every pause, can be deciphered into a hidden meaning of Ryan's whereabouts or just him in general.  
  
"Maybe I have," the old man speaks slowly and deliberately, "and maybe I haven't. Theresa, all I can say is, do not worry about the boy."  
  
Theresa's not quite sure whether it would be appropriate to laugh, cry, or shake Mr. Gonzalez until the whole story comes spilling out but she's pretty sure that Mr. Gonzalez has just informed her loud and clear: Ryan is alive and well.  
  
Unless of course, he's a little loopy and not all there, which is what Theresa and Ryan used to think back when they didn't have to worry about missing persons and DNA tests and the like.  
  
Theresa decides that, while she has faith in the veracity of Mr. Gonzalez's words, she should not get her hopes up—at least not quite so high. Yet.  
  
"I'm going out," says Theresa wisely, dropping the subject. "I should be back within the hour, Mr. Gonzalez."  
  
"Always knew you were a smart girl," she can hear Mr. Gonzalez saying as she exits his house.

* * *

The cashier lazily snaps her gum as she scans each item Theresa has dutifully gotten for Mr. Gonzalez. She looks up at the cashier and recognizes the girl after staring hard at her.  
  
"Maria?" Theresa asks dubiously.  
  
The girl looks at Theresa. "Theresa? That you?" Theresa nods her head happily and the two girls share a hug over the groceries.  
  
"How are you?" asks Theresa, as Maria stops bagging groceries for a moment.  
  
Maria shrugs half-heartedly. "Okay. I'm still with Greg." She holds up her ring finger and displays a small diamond set into gold.  
  
"Wow! Congratulations," Theresa exclaims sincerely. "How long have you been...?"  
  
"A year. Ma wants me to wait until I'm nineteen before we get married. Greg doesn't care either way, really, long as we're married soon. But enough about me. How's Ryan?"  
  
Theresa looks at Maria. Ryan. Before she can control herself, tears start to well up in Theresa's eyes and she blinks furiously.  
  
Maria looks confused. "Did I say something wrong? Is it Eddie now? I never knew which one of those two you was with, Theresa."  
  
Theresa waves away the questions with her hand. Sniffing, she assures Maria, "No, it's nothing. It's just...nothing. Sorry." Determinedly she wipes her eyes with her bare arm and hands over the money for the groceries. "Thanks."  
  
"Sorry," Maria says, while Theresa maneuvers three grocery bags in each hand and one under her armpit. "Sorry. It was good to see you."  
  
Theresa manages to nod her head before she quickly walks away from Maria. She's so embarrassed at her behavior. All Maria did was mention Ryan's name...and if he and Theresa were together...nothing big. Theresa is a big girl. She can handle things like this, or so she thought.  
  
"Wait, Theresa, you forgot the change!" Maria calls after Theresa's hastily retreating figure.  
  
"Keep it, Maria," Theresa insists, walking out of the grocery store.  
  
She teeters halfway down the block before the groceries spill out of her hands and more tears threaten to spill out of her eyes. Sinking down on the rough concrete Theresa hunches over, huddling in close to her knees, crying. She's acting like a baby, and can only imagine what her mother would say if she saw Theresa like this. Dolores isn't around though, and Theresa's past the caring point.  
  
She wants to be numb, to not feel anything, because then, losing Ryan won't be her fault anymore, because it won't feel like it.  
  
The groceries are everywhere and Theresa's sure the eggs are broken, ruined, and she's going to have to replace them with her own money.  
  
"Hey, there, don't cry." Theresa hears a familiar voice behind her but can't connect it to a face; it's definitely been a while since she's hung around with the characters she grew up with. She opens her eyes, the bright afternoon sun cruelly dancing spots before her. Theresa closes her eyes and squeezes them tightly. When she reopens them Juan is standing before her.  
  
Good old Juan. Theresa smiles. He's always been there for her throughout the years, even when she was just Arturo's little crybaby sister.  
  
He bends down and begins to pick up the groceries from the sidewalk and replacing them in bags.  
  
"What happened?" asks Juan as he works. Theresa feels terrible that she's not helping him pick up the fallen groceries, but right now she's not finished crying.  
  
"It's stupid," Theresa sniffs, "You'll only laugh at me."  
  
"Hey." Juan stops in the middle of bagging a head of lettuce and puts his hand on Theresa's shoulder. "I'd never laugh at you for something that could make you this...upset."  
  
Theresa really has grown up externally, thinks Juan, but on the inside, she's young and uncertain.  
  
"I was...someone in the grocery store asked me if I was still with Ryan and I—I guess that kind of just set me off...and now I'm a mess." Theresa chokes on a few of the words. She lets one more tear fall, before wiping her eyes and straightening up her face.  
  
"That's not stupid at all," Juan reassures Theresa. "I know you miss him and it's got to be hard on you, not knowing where he is and all...but enough of that. Let's get you home and then we'll go out for ice cream or something, kay?"  
  
Theresa nods. Juan smiles, his teeth glittering in the noonday sun. Those white teeth are strangely attractive to Theresa...oh, she shouldn't be thinking of things like these when her...Ryan—he's not hers but he's Ryan—is missing.  
  
She lets Juan help her to her feet and tries to carry a few of the grocery bags, but Juan insists on lugging all of them to Mr. Gonzalez's house.  
  
He's not a bad guy, Juan, decides Theresa as she walks back with him, her packages in his arms. 


	6. Six

Author's Note: My apologies for the lack of commotion in this chapter. Hope it's not too terrible. Oh, and savor the general angst-lessness while you can. It won't last.

* * *

Theresa and Juan creep stealthily into Mr. Gonzalez's house. In the kitchen, she peeks into the living room and sees Mr. Gonzalez, curled up in his worn armchair, newspaper face down on his plateau of a stomach.

"Shh…" she warns Juan, as they begin to put the groceries away and Juan opens and shuts a cabinet with a little too much force. "Don't wake him."

Juan nods. He hasn't seen Mr. Gonzalez in years, not since he used to roll with Arturo and was over at his house every day.

Once they've finished with the groceries, Theresa and Juan leave the cozy little kitchen and head for the front door. Juan opens the door and Theresa's just about to leave when they hear a disgruntled snort from inside the house.

"Theresa, you go on home, my dear. Juan—get back inside this house now!"

Theresa laughs and Juan looks somewhat bewildered. "What, you don't remember him being this sharp? He's got the ears and tongue of a razorblade," explains Theresa to Juan. He nods, and awkwardly reaches for her, holding her tightly.

It seems as though they won't be going for ice cream after all. Theresa finds her heart strangely sinking. She wasn't actually looking forward to that, was she? Oh, maybe she was, but Juan's just a friend, they can catch up another time.

"It was good to see you," he breathes into her neck. Theresa has this sudden feeling of speechlessness. She wants to say something in return, but she can't. So she stands there, wrapped up in Juan's laborious arms, breathing in his clean scent and wondering where he came from, what she did to deserve a caring friend like him.

"Maybe I'll see you tomorrow," Theresa ventures haphazardly, surprised at herself but more pleased when Juan nods his head enthusiastically.

"See you." He disappears back into Mr. Gonzalez's house, and Theresa almost pities him. Juan will be in that house all night, listening to Mr. Gonzalez and answering his questions.

Theresa takes her time walking back to her house. She stops on her front lawn, a patch of clovers and weeds is all it is, really. There's a clear outline of the full moon even though it's only five-thirty and images of _ET_ play like a movie in Theresa's head. She remembers watching the movie with Ryan, making a chart to track the full moon so they could be sure to see ET and Elliot on the bicycle. They never saw him, though, but Theresa can't help staring curiously at that moon for a few minutes.

She sighs, shakes her head after yet another disappointment, and walks over to the entrance of her tidy home. She stomps up the steps unintentionally, and cringes when her fingers grasp the handle to the still torn screen door. Theresa promises herself, while the screen door creaks and groans, that she'll fix the netting and get the hinges oiled before Ryan comes home.

Theresa knows she won't. But if her empty promises can give her the courage to live for one more day without Ryan, she'll continue to make them.

When she walks into the kitchen, Dolores is at the counter, cracking eggs into a bowl.

"Ma, I'm home," announces Theresa. Dolores drops the egg she's working with and turns around to face Theresa, her eyes shining.

Theresa stares curiously at her mother. Dolores' eyes are fixated on her and they're glistening with tears.

"What, Ma? Do I have something on my face?" Theresa reaches up to touch her nose.

"No, child. Mr. Cohen called," Dolores manages to say, her tone devoid of emotion.

Theresa bites her lip nervously…she's dying to ask, but now that all is said and done does she really want to know? "Is…Oh…did he mention anything about Ry—"

"It's not him, Theresa, it's not him!" Dolores cuts in excitedly. She walks over to Theresa and squeezes her tightly and kisses her on both cheeks repeatedly.

"It's not him, it's not him. It's not _him_!" says Theresa thoughtfully. And then, "He's alive!"

She releases herself from her mother's embrace and runs to the front door, opening it and the screen door quickly.

"Mr. Gonzalez, Mr. Gonzalez," she shouts, running across the lawn to his house and opening the door.

Mr. Gonzalez is sitting in his armchair, Juan standing against the wall. "Yes, Theresa?" he says.

"He's alive! Ryan's alive…the body isn't his." She wraps her arms around his neck and kisses his leathery cheek. Mr. Gonzalez winks at her.

"Eh, now?"

"I feel like I can breathe again, Mr. Gonzalez," Theresa explains, hugging Juan this time.

Mr. Gonzalez nods his head, understand fully. "Good. Pessimism does a person no good, you hear? Everything happens for a reason."

"Oh, you knew all along, didn't you?" Theresa chides Mr. Gonzalez gently. He smiles and shrugs.

That's the best she's going to get from Mr. Gonzalez, and Theresa's okay with that. Ryan is alive. Her Ryan—well, not _her _Ryan—is alive. He's not a headless body, found lying in an alley in Rialto. Ryan is living, breathing, flesh and bone. Theresa is giddy with relief. She doesn't even notice she's falling over backwards until Juan catches her, steadies her.

"Are you okay?" Juan asks Theresa worriedly. "You just practically fainted."

"I know," smiles Theresa, "I'm just relieved, that's all."

"Oh," answers Juan. He looks meaningfully at Mr. Gonzalez. "Do want to go for some ice cream?"

"I'd love to," Theresa answers quickly, without stopping to think. She doesn't want Juan to think she actually _likes_ him, when they're just friends…but—oh, she shouldn't even be thinking about the possibilities, not with Ryan still missing—yes, he's alive, but missing.

"Great. Mr. Gonzalez, do you want some? We can bring it back for you if you want…" Juan politely asks him. Mr. Gonzalez shakes his head and picks his newspaper off of his belly.

"You two run along now." He winks at Juan and Theresa makes a mental note to ask Juan what's up with his and Mr. Gonzalez's eye communication.

"Night, Mr. Gonzalez," Theresa says, and walks into the kitchen.

"I'll be out in a minute, Theresa," Juan calls after her, and after he hears the front door slam he turns to Mr. Gonzalez.

"You remember what I told you, Juan; be careful with that girl. She's gonna break your heart, I can feel it in my left hip."

Juan sighs. "I know she's trouble…I know Eddie, I know what she's done to guys in the past but I'm still attracted to her. I like her, Mr. Gonzalez, and I think she kind of likes me too."

"I'm not saying she doesn't like you; that much is obvious. Just…be cautious. I think she's got her heart set on Ryan and I just don't want to see _you_ get hurt," Mr. Gonzalez explains.

"I think this time's gonna be different, her and me, I mean," Juan says firmly. "I have to go…thanks for the advice, Mr. G."

He too enters the kitchen and walks to the door.

"Don't call me 'Mr. G.' ever again, boy," yells Mr. Gonzalez after him.

Juan laughs appreciatively. "It won't happen again, Mr. G.," he shouts in response.

He opens the door and steps outside, smiling at Theresa. He takes her hand and they walk down the block, Juan wondering if Theresa likes him and Theresa wondering if Juan could ever like her. They can wonder all they want; the truth is crystal clear.

* * *

A knock comes at the door. "Room service."

Sandy gets out of bed, hurriedly throws a bathrobe over his shoulders—for he is unclothed—and opens the door.

The young man in the hotel uniform wheels a cart with silver platters and a bucket of ice into the room. He reaches beneath the cart and produces a bottle of champagne, settling it comfortably in the ice.

"Enjoy." The young man turns to leave and Sandy fumbles with his wallet, handing the kid five bucks. "Thank you, sir."

Sandy closes the door and smiles at his wife, who is in bed. Kirsten smiles through tears of happiness. Not again, thinks Sandy. Kirsten's been crying on and off since Petey called with the news.

"It's not Ryan," Petey had said.

"Oh, I see," replied Sandy neutrally. Beside him, Kirsten had been squirming with anticipation. "Well—thank you, Petey."

"Good news or bad news?" Kirsten had attacked Sandy with an assortment of questions as soon as he'd hung up the phone.

"Kirsten, stay calm," Sandy said.

"Sandy!" Kirsten had cried, her voice elevating a few decibels and tears springing to her eyes.

"Fine. Kirsten—the body isn't Ryan's!" Sandy had smiled and pulled Kirsten in for a kiss. She'd kissed him all right, but not before slapping him lightly.

"Don't you ever do that to me again," she'd warned.

Sandy laughs, remembering what came after that. After all those years, he and Kirsten were still on fire. Okay…that was enough sharing.

Kirsten gets out of bed, without a bathrobe, mind you, and walks over to the room service cart. She lifts the plate covering and breathes in the smell of warm grilled cheese.

"Good choice." She points to the grilled cheese approvingly. Sandy, still up, opens the bottle of champagne and finds two wine goblets beneath the cart. He opens the bottle with the opener, also beneath the cart, and pours himself and Kirsten a glass each.

Kirsten takes a ravenous bite of the grilled cheese and accepts the glass Sandy hands her.

"To Ryan," she says through a mouthful of bread and good old American cheese, "To finding him and bringing him home safely."

"To Ryan," Sandy clinks his glass against Kirsten's and takes a long swig. "However we find him, and whatever state we find him in, to staying strong and sticking together."

Kirsten washes down the grilled cheese with two sips of champagne. Then—out of nowhere—comes a guilty look that plasters itself across her face, uninvited. "To Seth," she whispers, fear in her eyes.

"To Seth," agrees Sandy, feeling some of Kirsten's guilt radiate over to him. They didn't even think about Seth. But now they are. So it's time for another toast, some more champagne. "To finding Seth so Summer can kick his ass for leaving, and then we can ground him infinitely, but not really."

Kirsten smiles, feeling slightly better already. She runs a hand through her disheveled bed hair. "To both of our sons." Sandy raises his glass to meet Kirsten's.

"To both of our sons," he repeats, his heart suddenly draining itself of despair and filling in the emptiness with hope.


	7. Seven

Author's Note: Thanks to all for your support and patience.

* * *

With Sandy's okay, Petey has begun to follow another lead. Sandy, worn out by all the commotion, is convinced, in part by Kirsten and in part by Petey, to allow Petey to head out to Fresno to grill a man by the name of Charlie Horatio.

Petey parks his car at the motel he's booked a room at. It's small, nondescript, and all Petey Corrigan needs to conduct his investigation. After creating a mini-workstation at the desk in his musty, slightly cramped room, Petey picks up the phone and dials Mr. Horatio's number, hoping he'll be able to garner more information from the presumably shifty man who called his offices, saying he 'maybe got some information on Atwood'.

"This Charlie?" Petey says as soon as he hears someone pick up the phone with a _click!_

"Who wants to know?"

"This is Corrigan. You called my offices with some information."

"Yeah," Charlie responds gruffly. "You wanna meet me? Don't wanna be givin' this over the phone, you know?"

Petey makes arrangements to meet Charlie at a Dunkin' Donuts tomorrow morning—nice, neutral ground in case things get ugly. He can tell that Charlie's going to hand over what he knows, nice and easy.

Petey sleeps easily that night, hopeful, confident that this information will not lead to a dead end, that it will lead to the safe recovery of Sandy's son, Ryan.

After he's arrived at the donut shop, Petey orders a medium decaf—no cream, just sugar—and sits down to wait for Charlie Horatio, who will be wearing a blue t-shirt and come driving up in a rusted red van. The rusted part, Petey's not so sure about, it's just an assumption.

As soon as Charlie walks into the Dunkin' Donuts, Petey recognizes him. It's not only the boots that stomp confidently into the shop, but the somewhat crooked nose and the salt-and-pepper mustache. The receding hairline, the lip curled into a half-smile, half-snarl, the soiled fingernails clenched into fists, all this Petey Corrigan takes note of.

He nods at Charlie, who goes up to the counter, greets the cashier by name, and gets his coffee—regular, two creams, no sugar. Charlie walks over to Petey and pulls out the chair across from him.

"Morning," says Charlie, sipping his coffee and making a face. Evidently, the coffee has burned his tongue.

"Morning. Let's cut to the chase." There's no point in small-talking this character, Petey decides. Get the information, and go.

Charlie Horatio leans forward in his chair, looks around, as if half-expecting someone to be eavesdropping. "This Atwood guy, just got out of jail, he's on parole, came to work on the construction site."

Petey feels his spirits sink along with the coffee in his cup as he sips it. This Atwood guy, this reliable source, the sure key to finding Ryan, this Atwood guy turns out to be his father…or his brother.

"Sorry. I didn't catch Atwood's name."

Charlie shakes his head. "That's 'cause I didn't tell ya. John Atwood's his name, though I guess he could be Jonathon."

John Atwood. Petey makes a mental note to ask Sandy about Ryan's family. "How old is Atwood?" Petey takes a pen and small notebook out of his pants pocket and begins to scribble, in the trusty shorthand he learned back in '83.

"If I had to guess…forty?"

Petey sighs, dejected. Charlie may be off by a few years or so, but give or take five and he's right on target. This Atwood fellow must be Ryan's father. That, or his uncle, but Petey's not sure if Ryan has uncles. And a forty-year old recently released from jail is probably not Ryan's brother, either.

"And you say he works at…?"

"With me. Bailey's Construction. We're working on that old baseball lot on the corner of Gruver and Regency."

Quickly scribbling this information onto his paper, Petey thanks Charlie Horatio for his time.

"Yeah, you come by anytime, Mr. Corrigan," Horatio says, ever respectfully. He stands up and, coffee in hand, walks out of the Dunkin' Donuts.

"I will," says Petey, watching his latest informant—a letdown—start the engine of his rusted red van. As Charlie burns rubber, the tires squealing on the way out, Petey shoves his face into his hands. This is not going well. Not well at all. There's one more item on the agenda he has to take care of before he can head back to the Cohens and concede failure, once again.

* * *

"Mr. Corrigan, you came!" Charlie walks over to Petey's car.

"Petey's fine, Charlie."

"You want me to get Atwood?"

Petey nods, and, like a small puppy that has just graduated from obedience school; Charlie scampers off to find John Atwood. While he waits, Petey scrapes his shoe against the layer of dirt covering the newly poured concrete sidewalk, scuffing his black shoes. No longer shiny anyway, the shoes are taking on a scratchy brown coloring.

Charlie returns a few minutes later with a tall man in cement-coated work boots. He's got a full head of dirty blond hair, Petey notes. Immediately Petey extends his hand to shake John's. John stares at Petey's smooth hand before mechanically extending his own stiff, coarse hand.

"I'm Petey Corrigan."

"John Atwood," says John, although he must know that Petey already knows of his name. "What can I do for you?"

"I'll catch you later." Charlie waves at Petey, whispers good luck, and heads over to a truck parked on the street to get two sheets of plywood.

"You know a Ryan Atwood?"

John shifts his eyes to the ground, then up to Petey. "He's my son," he replies huskily. "Why?"

Petey's not going to play games with this guy. He'll tell him the truth and maybe John can point him in the direction of other sources, maybe tell him a place Ryan might be welcome to escape to. "He's missing; we're looking for him and stumbled upon you."

John's unnaturally blue eyes flicker with interest. Petey's only just noticed those eyes, the same ones in the pictures of Ryan. The family resemblance, other than the obvious hair color, is now unambiguous.

"Did you talk to Dawn? That bitch better not have done anyth—"

"John," interrupts Petey, "Ryan hasn't been living with Dawn. He was living with the Cohens, and then he went back to Chino to live with the girl he may have gotten pregnant, and one night he just left the house and never came back."

"I never stuck around long enough to get to know him…he was only six or seven when I left and even then I wasn't home most nights…I shoulda written him…how's Trey?"

"John, with all due respect, this is about Ryan right now. But Trey was incarcerated last summer, when he and Ryan got busted for stealing a car. That was when Ryan went to live with the Cohens."

"Kay. Sorry. So, how can I help you with all this? I haven't seen Ryan in at least nine years…if that's what you're suggesting…" John wrings his fingers together, rough hands callused from twelve-hour construction jobs, day in, day out.

"No," says Petey quickly, "Nothing like that. Just…do you have any relatives, any friends Ryan would've known of, that he could go to them if he needed a place to stay?"

John is quiet for a minute, and Petey gives him silence to work with. He shuts his eyes and squeezes them, as though the information will come tearing out of his eye sockets if he concentrates hard enough. Then—"My sister, Sandy…she's in…"

"Yes?"

"Buffalo, I think, New York." Petey takes out his handy notebook and a pen, ready to take note of every word John says, even if the information is, more or less, useless.

"Oh." It's highly unlikely that Ryan would go all the way to New York, and even more so that he'd be able to scrounge up the funds necessary for such travel.

"You say friends too?"

"Yeah."

"My best friend," John tells Petey, "Name's Sean. Sean Harverd. Trey and Ryan, they used to call him Uncle Sean. Last time I saw him was here, before I got locked up and when we was still a family, me and Dawn and Trey and Ry."

"So, this Uncle Sean would let Ryan stay with him, if needed?"

John shrugs. "If Ryan could track him down…I don't know if Ry would even remember him…he was just a little kid."

Petey is about to thank John for the somewhat useful information—hey, some information is better than none—when John's eyes light up again. He's got something.

"I remember Sean came to see me at the prison, you know, and he told me he'd been helping Dawn with my boys. 'Course, that probably meant he was sleeping with her, he always was kinda hot for her…but I'd rather have had him doing that than some bastard who'd beat Trey and Ryan. So, he comes to see me again, says Dawn doesn't want him around no longer, and he's heading east, Arizona, Colorado maybe. As far as he can get with his limited money, and then he'll settle down. A good car mechanic, Sean always was good with cars."

Petey listens, intrigued. Atwood's got a memory like no other. Good thing he stuck around to hear all of this.

"And…?" prompts Petey, when John pauses, most likely in order to jog his memory.

"And…he said he'd try to keep in touch with my boys, had their new address in Chino or wherever the hell Dawn moved them to. Just to make sure they was staying out of trouble, you know?"

Petey's mind is full of this information, information that could prove _extremely_ useful after all. He shuts his notebook and puts it and the pen back into his pocket.

"Thanks, John." Petey shakes his hand again. "If you think of anything else, call this number." He reaches into his pocket and hands John a business card. "Cell's on all day and night."

John nods, fingering the pure white card with his dirt stained hands before pocketing it. He watches Petey drive away, wondering where the hell his son is and not wanting to tell Petey that, with the Atwood luck, Ryan's either lying, dead, in an alley somewhere, or locked up.

* * *

The phone rings and Kirsten drops the book she's holding and runs to the kitchen. "Hello?"

"Kirsten? Are you up?" It's Sandy. Just Sandy.

Kirsten sighs, looking down at her Berkeley pajama pants, a Grateful Dead tie-dye t-shirt. She's up, but that doesn't mean she has to get dressed.

"Yeah."

"Any word?"

"Wouldn't I have _called_ you?"

"Yes, dear." Sandy sighs. Kirsten is so exasperated with him these days, with the world these days. "Do you want me to bring you some lunch?"

"No thanks. I'm going to go to Costco later. We've got no food in the house."

Since when does Kirsten shop at Costco? Sandy wonders, but deems it unwise to ask her about her sudden change of store preferences. "I love you," he tells Kirsten, putting the smallest of smiles on her face.

"Love you, too." Kirsten hangs up the phone and runs back into the living room. It's a mess, with boxes of pictures scattered all over the floor and two scrapbooks open to pages of Seth. Everything is a memory of Seth.

Kirsten plops down in the spot she's been occupying on the carpet for the last two hours. She picks up the royal blue scrapbook and smiles at a picture of Seth, grinning, toothless in Disneyworld. The picture on the other page is a lopsided photo of Kirsten, being sandwiched by Chip and Dale, a thumb covering half of the castle behind them. Kirsten manages to laugh; Seth had insisted on taking the picture, and his thumb had partially covered the lens, his head cocked for a 'better picture'.

The next picture is Seth and Sandy in Mickey Mouse ears, Seth frowning and Sandy grinning maniacally. Kirsten remembers bribing nine-year-old Seth with new games for his Playstation so that he'd wear the ears and stand in place for a picture. She'd gotten her picture, although it was an unhappy one, and he'd still gotten the three new video games.

Kirsten shuts the scrapbook of Seth's eight to twelve year old experiences. She sets it on the couch, out of her way, and picks up the baby blue scrapbook. The sight of the pictures on the very first page makes Kirsten's breath stop in her throat and tears choke her up. There Seth is, in his very first picture. He's wearing a white beanie with little blue snowflakes on it and is wrapped up in a baby blue blanket. His mouth is wide open and his brown eyes sparkle.

On that very same page a picture of Kirsten and Seth is bordered by paper cutouts of baby blocks, spelling out 'Mommy & Me'. Kirsten's hair is limp and bedraggled, but her skin is glowing with the healthy sheen of motherhood.

A few fat tears roll off of Kirsten's cheek and onto the page, splattering it. Hastily Kirsten closes the book; she doesn't need it being ruined by her moment of sensitivity. She reaches into a box and stiffens as she pulls the leaf collage out. Seth's elementary school artwork box.

Knowing that she's in no way emotionally equipped to pore over these archives of Seth's childhood, Kirsten takes another piece out of the box—self-portrait. Seth's given himself a full Afro, only 'a Jewfro, Mom', big brown eyes, and Popeye-like arm muscles. She shakes her head, puts the leaf collage and the self-portrait back into the box as the tears become steadier, a heavier downpour. But her hands itch to pick out one more Seth Cohen original, and so they do. It's a kindergarten masterpiece—A huge heart cut by the teachers, then decorated by Seth himself. Seth has drawn himself, Sandy, and Kirsten holding hands, a large black dog by their side (wishful thinking) and the words 'One Big Happy Family' scrawled over their heads in barely comprehensible writing. The teachers obviously helped Seth spell the words out.

Kirsten pushes the heart back into the box as she prepares for a flood of tears. She hurries into the kitchen where she stands over the sink, letting her tears _Drip! Drip! Drip! _Into the basin.

Kirsten blindly grabs a paper towel and dabs at her eyes, blowing her nose in a loud honk that would have Seth cowering in embarrassment. She'll go to Costco now, stock up on Seth and Ryan's favorite snacks—although she knows but a few of Ryan's. Kirsten regards Ryan as her son but he's the polar opposite of Seth. Ryan never asked for anything, while Seth asked for anything and everything in between. It took her four months to figure out that Ryan liked Cinnamon Toast Crunch best, not Captain Crunch like Seth.

He'd never have asked.

She'll go to Costco and get a dozen boxes of each. Her boys will be famished when they come home.

Her boys.

Kirsten gets into the Range Rover—Sandy has his Beemer at work with him—and drives to Costco. She loads up on cereal, like she wanted, but decides to hold off on the ten gallons of milk, because, after all, milk spoils and she doesn't know how long it will be before her house is noisy with the sound of teenage boys. Well, the sound of one teenage boy; Ryan doesn't really make a racket.

As she goes up and down each aisle, randomly shoving Seth's favorites and a few guesses for Ryan, Kirsten spots pudding.

Pudding.

Seth loves pudding. He's had a love affair with it since before he could walk and Kirsten's surprised that it hasn't shown up on his lanky, lean frame.

She begins to load pudding into the half-filled cart; tapioca, chocolate, French vanilla, Oreo, double chocolate…

Three hundred dollars (seventy-eight of that is pudding) later, Kirsten wheels her cart out of Costco, pushing it towards the Range Rover. She unloads the wholesale sized foods into the back and when it's filled, she places the rest of her packages on the backseat and the floor.

One unit of tapioca pudding falls onto the ground. Kirsten picks it up, raises it to the bright sky, and sobs.

"Seth, I have your pudding…please come home, baby," she says loudly, attracting curious stares from other shoppers. Sinking to her knees in the rough asphalt parking lot, she says, her voice hushed this time, "Please come home…the pudding…I…have…pudding…"


	8. Eight

Author's Note: Thanks for your continued patience and support. This chapter's pretty short and lacking in detail, and I apologize in advance. Next chapter should be along by the end of the week, sometime Sunday. Hope this doesn't disappoint...

* * *

"Theresa, take out the trash," Dolores shrills from the kitchen. 

"Yes, Ma." Theresa quickly changes into jean cutoffs and an old t-shirt before entering the kitchen. She opens the garbage can and begins to extract the heavy-duty black garbage bag.

"Theresa, watch out!" Dolores lifts a pot off the stove and carries it past Theresa. She bumps up against Theresa, who, in the process of tying the trash bag, knocks it over, spilling trash all over the floor. "Theresa!" Dolores clucks her tongue disapprovingly, "Now look what you've done."

"I'm sorry, Ma. I'll clean it up right away." She sighs and kneels on the floor to gather the garbage. A dog-eared card catches her attention and she picks it up, gently pulling it apart and realizing that there's a piece of gum stuck to it. After discarding the gum, her eyes pore over the card, not quite understanding what the words mean but excited nonetheless.

"Theresa, what are you doing? Cleaning up the trash or what?" Dolores puts a hand on her curvaceous aproned hip.

"Yes, Ma." Theresa puts the card to the side, careful not to throw it back in the trash bag. Once she's finished, she picks it up and starts to walk towards her bedroom.

"What's that, Theresa?"

"Just something of Ryan's, Ma. I'm going to put it in my memory box." She heads into her room and places it on top of her bedspread, bending down and reaching under the bed. She vaguely remembers stowing the box in the corner, and soon enough her fingers grasp something...

Sitting down on the bed, Theresa examines the piece of paper. It's connected to the card somehow, it must be, but it is much more helpful.

For on the card are phone numbers and names, clear-cut, defined plans.

And before she knows it, tears are rolling down her face. Not because she's upset – no, there will be no more unhappy tears. Or so Theresa would like to hope. Because these papers – these clues as to Ryan's whereabouts – are so uplifting that she is inclined to cry tears of happiness.

Dolores pokes her head in the door. "Theresa, are you alright?"

Theresa sighs. Must her mother always interrupt her quiet moments? She dismisses her with a wave of her hand. "Ma, not now." And then – "Can you get me the business card that's in the pocket of my blue jacket?"

Dolores nods but Theresa can hear her muttering under her breath in Spanish as she leaves the bedroom in search of the blue coat. Returning but a moment later, her mother hands her the card.

"Thanks, Ma." Theresa stares evenly at her mother, trying to give her the hint to leave.

She nods, and for once, takes a hint and shuts Theresa's door on her way out.

Theresa picks up the telephone on her desk and dials the number without hesitation. She knows that the Cohens will probably want to hear from her themselves, but she wants to surprise them, in a way.

Maybe then she won't feel as though she's to blame for Ryan's leaving.

Just maybe.

"Hi, Mr. Corrigan? This is Theresa..."

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"We've got a lead, Sandy," says Petey.

Sandy sighs. "Another one?" Petey's just doing his job but Sandy doesn't want to get his hopes up. He's been optimistic about each and every lead up until now. But, as daylight fades to night, time after time, and there's still no Ryan, Sandy knows that his spirits are sinking.

"Sandy, this one's pretty promising. Look, Cohen, we've found some directions and numbers for a place in Arizona, in Yuma...actually, Theresa found them at her house."

Sandy's ears perk up. Theresa's involved with this? But why didn't she call him? He makes a mental note to call her later and wring the details from her. "Go on," he says slowly.

"Now, I'm going to send someone out there...if it would make you happier, I'll go out there myself."

"I'll go," Sandy volunteers immediately, "Just in case he's really there."

"But Sandy, you don't know what you're doing," Petey protests. "You – you haven't the slightest idea where to start!"

"I know damn well what I'm doing. Looking for my son. In Arizona."

Petey sighs. Sandy is a paying client, and, unfortunately, he must accede with his wishes. "Fine. I won't send anyone. We're going to keep investigating though, just in case. And I want weekly reports – daily, if you find anything promising, okay?" It doesn't mean that Petey can't enlist Sandy. He's become quite immersed in Ryan's case himself and wants to know what the outcome is.

"Thanks, Corrigan. This means a lot to me. Kirsten also."

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Kirsten hands Sandy a brown paper bag. He eyes it suspiciously. Laughing nervously, she explains, "Don't worry, I ordered the sub from Pirelli's and the fruit I just bought yesterday. So there's no chance of you being poisoned, okay?"

Sandy pulls her in close to his body and kisses her smack on the lips. "I love you, you know that?"

Kirsten shrugs, tears beginning to well in her eyes. "Be careful. And call me every day, okay Sandy?" She breathes in his signature scent – the ridiculously expensive cologne she bought him for his birthday, that he complained was too expensive but kept it, just because it was her gift to him.

He nods dutifully, though the both know how engrossed in the whole search project Sandy will inevitably become.

"I love you," whispers Kirsten. Sandy kisses her one last time and salutes, beginning to march out of the kitchen. He hears Kirsten laugh after him and smiles.

"If you hear anything from Seth..." Sandy shouts.

"I'll call you," Kirsten promises, her voice shaking.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Upon his arrival at the hotel, Sandy checks into his room. He dials one of the numbers Petey gave him. He's to call a Raul's Auto Shop and ask for Sean. From there, it's all up to him.

"'Lo?" The gruff voice reeks of impatience and disinterest.

"Hi, this is Sandy Cohen calling. I was wonderin—"

"Whaddya need? Oil change?"

"Sean there?" So much for being polite.

"Huh, I'll go get him."

"Thanks," says Sandy, in a last attempt at displaying his manners. There's no one on the line as of now, though, and he hears the phone crackle after a minute – the result of it being passed from one grease-stained pair of gloves to another.

"Sean. What do you need?"

This time, Sandy wisely decides to cut to the chase. "You know a Ryan Atwood?"

Sean pauses, and Sandy can hear his heavy breathing on the other end of the phone. "Who wants to know?" he asks carefully.

"His legal—" And there Sandy catches himself, clears his throat. "A friend."

Sean sighs and tells him, "He works here, yeah, but if you wanna talk to him, he hangs around that diner on Byway Street."

Sandy reaches for a pen and scribbles the relative address of the diner on a piece of hotel stationary.

"Kid's got a thing for that one waitress...hey, listen man, don't tell him I sent you, kay?"

"Sure, thanks Sean." Sandy hangs up the phone and clutches the paper in his hand with a renewed hope.

Diner.

Byway Street.

Ryan works at Raul's Auto Shop.

Who is Sean and how does Ryan know him?

Sandy knows he should call Kirsten. He knows he should. But a part of his heart tells him to keep it all to himself, for now. It's his special treat, finding Ryan. His private mission, and when he finds Ryan, he'll have a personal reward. Then he'll tell Kirsten.

She's going to be upset when he doesn't call. But when he does, with news of Ryan's whereabouts, or, better yet, that he's coming home, she'll forget all about not being in the know.

Or so Sandy hopes.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Sandy takes a deep breath and checks the address on the read-to-shreds hotel stationary. This is the diner. There's no doubt about it. The diner is all windows and bordered by a shiny aluminum silver.

Not sure of what to expect, Sandy hears the welcoming bells jingle and the door shut behind him. There's a sign that reads _Please Seat Yourself_. Guided by some inner MapQuest, Sandy walks towards a booth and sits down slowly. The shiny red cushion contrasts with Sandy's pallor. He's nervous.

So unbelievably nervous.

Will Ryan be here? Will that waitress Sean mentioned be here? Will he himself be here in another second because he's about to turn around and leave this place before he makes a mistake and...

Wait. What was – no, it couldn't be. Sandy turns away from the window and tries to reassure himself that he's only seeing things. He picks up the menu, determined to order and be done with it, but hears the bells jingle and can't resist peeking over his shoulder...

It's Ryan. Sandy stares him down, hoping to see a flicker of recognition in his son's eyes.

Nothing.

The boy's hair is longer, thicker, but those blue eyes are still razor sharp. Upon seeing Sandy – although it hasn't appeared to register in his mind – Ryan's body stiffens, eyes cloud.

He walks up to the counter and orders a coffee. To go. Sandy watches him, transfixed. This is a feast for his eyes. His Ryan, here in the flesh.

He's here. Alive.

And he surely recognizes him.

Sandy stands up, menu in hands, debating whether or not he should walk over to Ryan. His feet move mechanically a few steps towards Ryan, then halt.

Ryan steals a quick glance at Sandy and turns away.

Yet while the boy's body is obviously screaming _run, run, run_, he stays. Sandy's hopes rise a notch. He takes his seat.

This is not the Ryan Sandy once knew. The Ryan he knew and loved would run like the wind to avoid a confrontation like this. He's different, and Sandy wants to believe, desperately needs to believe that Ryan's change is for the better.

Ryan reaches into his pocket and pulls out some change, slapping it down on the counter. The waitress, who has curly auburn hair– ah, so this must be _the_ waitress, notes Sandy – smiles, exchanges a few words with Ryan. She takes a Styrofoam cup, looks at Sandy (or does she?) and fill sit up from a pot of coffee most likely not decaffeinated. As the waitress is handing the cup to Ryan, Sandy does not miss his fingers brushing over hers, nor does he miss the extra few seconds Ryan holds them in place.

He then takes his Styrofoam cup, looks blankly at Sandy, and walks out of the diner. The bell son the door jangle with the news of his departure.

One hand in his pocket, the other holding his coffee, Ryan walks past the window Sandy is staring out of. His eyes dart like poison frogs from the window, to Sandy, to the sidewalk, which is stained with dried gum and shards of broken glass that will glitter dangerously in the afternoon sun.

In an attempt to do the Ryan – that is, display a plethora of emotions and words with one look – Sandy fails miserably. He knows that his face must be twisted and contorted in a laughable way, and even thinks he sees the corners of Ryan's mouth curve slightly. But he could be wrong.

The mind often plays tricks on those with active imaginations and a yearning to see.

Ryan shakes his head and continues walking down the street. Sandy sits, frozen to the spot, blown away by what has just happened. Has he really just had a Ryan encounter? He laughs. The way his mind puts it, Sandy's just had a shark encounter and Ryan is the shark. Weird.

A waitress, not _the_ waitress, taps Sandy on the shoulder. "You ready to order, mister? I don't have all day."

Sandy is thankful that this isn't Ryan's waitress, because Ryan deserves so much better than _this_.

"I'll have the Canyon Crepes with a side order of bacon." Sandy's got to keep Kirsten in his heart, or in this case, his stomach. "Oh, and a cup of decaf coffee, no cream, no sugar." Sandy tells himself he won't load up on the caffeine. His 'encounter' with Ryan has left him feeling drained, and he wants nothing more than to eat breakfast and go back to the hotel and crawl into bed.

The waitress laughs and points to the Half-and-Half and sugar already on the table. "What do you think this is, a four star restaurant? You add whatever it is _you_ want into your _own_ coffee, mister." She shakes her head and walks away, muttering, "He must be rich, or something...thinking we'll customize his coffee for him."

Sandy wonders what he's going to do about Ryan. The kid is ignoring him, whether or not he recognizes him. Oh, of course he recognizes Sandy. Ryan hasn't been gone for _that_ long, and Sandy's not that daft.

But what is it going to take to get Ryan to acknowledge him?

And where to from there?


End file.
